Pine Dancers

change the blood
change the characters
they want to do think something else

love the fire
love the heat
use the day gut to navigate

find your invisibles
listen carefully mindfully
use their lessons as quilts

courage- have heart
vulnerability-wholesomeness
believe in your lovability

treat your stories with respect
no trashing motives
they are as honorable

as the time you wrote them

11/13/2015

joy, music, food, dance, games,
street life, families, community

fear, horror, killing, terror, evil,
rage, silence, endings,violence

empathy, compassion, healing, 
calm, thoughtful, resilience

Paris, Beirut, Kenya

Hidden away in the recesses of my own self is a wild ancient crone who has been gathering materials and messages for a grand dance. Within my woven wicker trunk are the totems developed over the years, the masks worn for so many occasions, the sacred texts and songs of seven decades. In the trunk also resides a cache of magic known only to me, cards, feathers, bags of potions, vessels, and bits and pieces of crow collections these include pretty paper, old candies, photographs, songs, silver rings and a poem or two.

The repository of magic and totems also has a crow drum, a gourd, an ipu, embroidery, and many glass items all sanctified and incensed ready for the day the dance commences. The trick of it all is to time it just right. The right night, the right moon, the right season, the right place and the right reason. When all is set and the stage and all the trappings and regalia are in order.. the beginning will be announced by the cry of the crow. The wild dance of life, death, and the spirit will commence with bells, and drums, and lots of swirling purple and black. The dance will ease away the cover of the gardens and reveal an ancient stairway to the mother of us all as I am called upon to return to the Crowmother.

dancing particles

it is easy to find fault in other humans, 
harder to find their core;
easy to criticize and be clever, 
harder to have compassion;
easy to be smart and hip, 
harder to be real;
easy to dismiss the object of our fear, 
harder to understand differences;
mockery is easier, 
love is harder.
but love trumps hate every time.

we are all just dancing particles.

Turn Left

Turn left or right?

this road is frozen

slippery and there's fog

like life never clear enough 

to always choose 

right or left

sometimes shadowy figures 

appear blocking the way

stuff happens just happens 

it seems

out of the blue or gray

meanwhile we are moving forward always

no choice in this fog or no fog

we travel making slight corrections 

but always wanting to choose

landscapes coming and going

stop signs and dim lights

but always forward

relentlessly

maybe now a left turn

maybe not.

Paint

throw the critic to the wind

and paint

paint like a mad woman

paint like a sprite

paint with passion

paint with fear

paint the towers

the darkest secrets

paint the plains

and the tundra

paint spirals and flowers

and saints

paint the dark and unknown

paint the sacred and sublime

paint for yourself

paint with love

paint like a baby

paint like a crone

but above all

touch the surface

with your heart

Moon

moon, searing into the soul

illuminating the hidden path

challenging the weakened will

she who shines with boldness

daring us to reach to grow

no excuse no darkness

dreams stand up and be counted

she who enlightens

watches

A wish...

Read " The Safety Pin Cafe" by Moihana Calizar

http://thesafetypincafe.blogspot.com/2012/12/it-begins.html


http://thesafetypincafe.blogspot.com/2012/12/it-begins.html



A wish...

I wish for the medicine to heal the sad and lonely, to soothe the minds that race and distort. I I wish for a salve to quiet the anxious and the sick and a tincture for the delusional and disquieted. I wish for a medicinal pouch to bring peace and serenity to those shaken and harmed and a secret blessing for those facing losses. I wish the Safety Pin Cafe would lead folks to a better place and heal their souls like the apple pie healed the faceless lady. the gypsy

This Age

she was a library
a jump drive
an old photo album

she remembered
meals from her youth
and her favorite boots

she dreamed of old Chevies
summer trips to NYC
her first pineapple

she could smell
the old lilacs and
cider freshly milled

she lives in the here
and now only rarely
falling into the past

she hopes to live to
be an old crone
hoarding the memories

Happy 2014

Happy Holidays to all!

RIP Nelson Mandela

The Sixties

The Sixties


she laughs as she tells the story,

little irish catholic girl,
drove west from Boston,

arrived in the Haight,
pink dress, pink shoes, pink purse,

hair curled just right,
from rollers at night,

friends pull up a mattress,
pass her a joint,

San Fran the city of love,
oh my goodness,

this is going to be,
quite a trip,

for kt with hoots of laughter

Plate

Plate

johnson brothers,
blue and white,

not flow blue,
not old,
not imported,
but in any case,
treasured,
kept in the antique cabinet,
used for Easter ham,
and Thanksgiving bird,


imagine my surprise
when I saw
the real thing
all crisp and creamy
blue slightly off


many miles and
antique shops later
I still get a chill
when I come upon
some hidden
on the back shelf

blue and white

Magic

Magic


girl scout meeting,
wearing the uniform,
world's my oyster,
everything is green,
small town sounds,
long sidewalk route,
spring maples,
mist on the hills,
about supper time,

being twelve,
and feeling magical,

only time,
can change that

The dye pot

The Dye Pot

on the couch
on the hotseat
of my own choosing

yearning to live
leaving red hot drive
for slow motion

wanting intimacy
and stories
and joyful peaceful walks

needing to cry away
the past the legacies
the dictums

cast out a lifetime
of struggle and miseries
for grace and ease

needing to steep my self
in walnuts and euco leaves
stain my very soul

need to cover my self
and make silk dresses
from the same dye pot

it is time to stop and feel
stop and live
slow down and ramble

get lost in parking lots
talk to cows and
answer back my crows

it is time to peel off the armor
lay naked in leaves
feel the earth leach into my skin
it is definitely time for change

Tree Mother

Oh Tree Mother


Oh Tree Mother wrapping your arms around the birds and squirrels and frogs , please continue to support us with your life giving oxygen. You filter and clean our air and slow the winds and bind the soil and give us shelter. We thank you for your being. You are our family and when you are cut we feel the pain as we should. Please continue to whistle in the wind and sway with the breeze. We are healthy and joyful in your presence.

Crowmother Dance

I have been reading Meinrad Craighead,

Crow Mother and the Dog God and wrote this little piece inspired by her crow magic and much of my own.

Hidden away in the recesses of my own self is a wild ancient crone who has been gathering materials and messages for a grand dance. Within this woven wicker trunk are the symbols developed over the years, the masks worn for so many occasions, the sacred texts and songs of 7 decades. In the box also reside a cache of magic known only to me, cards, feathers, bags of potions, vessels, and bits and pieces of crow collections these include pretty paper, old candies, photographs, songs, silver rings and a poem or two.

The repository of magic and totems also has a crow drum, a gourd, an ipu, embroidery, and many glass items all sanctified and incensed ready for the day the dance commences. The trick of it all is to time it just right. The right night, the right moon, the right season, the right place and the right reason. When all is set and the stage and all the trappings and regalia are in order.. the beginning will be announced by the cry of crow. The wild dance of life, death, and the spirit will commence with bells, and drums, and lots of swirling purple and black. The dance will ease away the cover of the gardens and reveal an ancient stairway to the mother of us all. This will be repeated as I am called upon by the Crowmother.

Camp

Ashfield Lake

Camp

off to camp tomorrow
an art camp with grownups
remembering ashfield lake
muggy hot and wildly humid
bed rolls hitched with safety pins

list of duties posted on the fridge
Girl Scout songs and s'mores
canoe classes, fearful of water
hanging out at the store
ogling tough guys and a jukebox

eleven, skinny, and shy
hopelessly unaware of the big life
she would soon fall into
far away from the maple covered hills
and their seductive magic

Summer Magic

Summer Magic

dreamy pink and sleepy blue
calling all to the garden
sniff the mint
caress the basil
count the baby zukes
steal some raspberries
watch the bunny
measure the climbing purple beans
ah yes, summer in the Northwest
dreamy, short and magical

The Open Road

The Open Road


like a line to infinity
like the memory of a dream

stretching past the humdrum
entering the mystery of story

where does the road go?
what is possible now?

the white line calls out
beckoning the willing

seductive siren of tar
magician of time and space

Wax

Tree  c 2013 Joan Tucker

Encaustic

colors, lines, marks, scrapes

gouges, swirls, dots, bumps

burning, smoothing, removing, 

adding, layering, dividing

excited, delighted, transformed, 

surprised, enchanted, relieved

whew art

Somewhere Else

Somewhere Else


a glimpse, a peek, a slice
of life outside
the normal state of affairs

craving to be
somewhere else,

longing to travel
somewhere else,

hoping to feel
something else

wanting to imagine
something else

yearning  to create
something else

exploring this lust
for somewhere else

Running Away

Running Away

van all packed and prepped
little green tent loaded

longing for escape
windy beaches, hard sand

away from computers
phone calls,the news

only childlike exuberance
telling stories, humming tunes

some days need to flee
away away sad bad mad

let's gas her up and roll

Poinsettias in Paradise

Poinsettias in Paradise


growing wild, uninhibited
down the hillsides, as hedges
red waves triumphant

not crowded in green pots
pinched and hothoused
controlled decoration

Haiku

Haiku

flickers have returned

only in may they come

renewing their vows

new bathing beauties

taking daring aerials

old bird bath smiling

Year of the Snake

Year of the Snake


the snake starts in February

uncoiling her magic

in fits and spurts

sometimes deliberate 

often in dreamy reverie

complete in herself

beginning and end

shedding her old

layers as she lives

Ho Ho Ho

Blacky

Blacky

this cat was running wild
killing birds sleeping little
keeping the raccoons at bay

this cat now has a name
sleeps on my chair
refuses certain foods

this cat likes it indoors
with velour mice
and a rope scratching post

this cat's got culture
gave up the rat race
for the human race

Facial

Facial


my face
got a work over
out with the old
in with the new
sixty minutes rub a dub dub

my spirit
needs a scrub,
exfoliated, steamed
freed from blemishes
maybe it too would glow