Menagerie

Welcome to the menagerie of my mind!

Collection I have traversed time to find!

Untamed creatures a one of every kind!

Circus of dreams ideas in passion I bind!

My wild imagination I sent to be refined;

High Def exaggeration in story entwined;

Dash o’ rose hint o’ lime polished shined!

This, my life’s work which daily I do grind.

Compulsion obsession madness confined?

From my depth of soul divinity I’ve mined!

My search for guidance only faith defined;

A purpose to purify menagerie of my mind.

The Meaning of Color

The weaving of chartreuse and lavender is a matter of opinion,

A controversy over the many shades of spring!

Summer moods are translated through subtle hues of vermillion,

Passion’s peak of heat that red-oranges bring!

Autumn sets color free speech in primary hues of truth dominion,

Enter souls by eye-gate beauty inspire to sing!

Color falls to grey as white blanket drapes over every color minion,

Winter wipes slate clean in an icy-dazzle-bling!

 

Irrelevant?

What if I have written it all away?

All those important things I had to say,

And my creative mind fades in aging?

 

Should this old woman sit silent?

Observing only, as life’s passions relent?

And ambitions fray beyond assuaging?

 

Is this the day I’ve become irrelevant?

A life of experience now, an impediment?

As youths fires of souls in mind raging!

 

Old marries alone; aging artist is eccentric.

Cutting edge technique, an olden-day trick!

Museum dust, archived tomes arranging.

 

Inside this graying head ideas still burn!

Refined, honed, tested, polished; Taciturn,

Waiting for perfect moment, right paging.

 

Old woman’s color fades into the background…

Expert hand trembles to write words profound.

Perfect gems require no salacious packaging.

 

Does age purify the art of the creative?

Or does it stagnate, cease; become vegetative?

Like me, is my art from life now, disengaging?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Recluse (Part VII)

Alisha is wide awake a full half-hour before the time either of her parents usually, rouse each other to get ready for work. She can’t wait to get over to Ms. William’s house and gather more clues to solve “The Mystery of the Lone Lady” the mystery/fantasy game she created in her twelve-year-old mind and is obsessed with. The lines between fantasy and reality are as blurred in her thinking as her definition of person and object. At twelve, Alisha views life as a wonderful, exciting, movie unfolding before her and because of her inborn nature and the special status her parents have always given her, it is no stretch for her to place herself in the seat of movie director. Life in Alisha’s view is simply a matter of controlling the script and directing various personalities to move here or there and nudging them into her desired action. It has worked so well with her parents that she accepts it as her rightful station in life. Alisha manipulates with ease and without conscience but also, without malice. She is simply, a twelve-year-old girl who is as alone as the woman she’s become fascinated with and she is caught up in her imagination. She is only, playing a game and has no real feelings at all for Estelle.

Tony hears unusual rustling noises that are unusual for this time of morning. Being a vigilant protector, there is no hesitation as he jumps out of bed to investigate the source. Following the intrusive sounds, he finds Alisha dressed, polished, and pouring a bowl of cereal in the kitchen. “Mi jita! I never see you up this time of day! Que pasa? “ Alisha brightens when she sees her father and runs to him for a hug. “Oh! Hi Daddy! Didn’t Momma tell you? I’ve got a job! I’m going to be working at our neighbor’s house. You know, the lady next door who is alone all of the time? I’m going to do chores for her and she’s going to pay me with art lessons. Isn’t that great? You don’t have to worry about me being home alone, Ms. Williams won’t be alone, and I’ll be learning so many new things! Aren’t you proud of me, Daddy… mi papacito?” Tony could never be anything but proud of his daughter but he didn’t like the idea of his precious Alisha spending time with a woman he didn’t know. “No. Your mother said nothing and I’m not sure I want you spending time with a stranger.” Alisha notes the expected resistance and meets the challenge as she’s done so many times before with great success. “Oh….Daddy, she’s no stranger! She’s Ms. Williams our next door neighbor. You always say that we should love our neighbors. How can I show her the love of Jesus if I don’t spend time with her?” Tony thinks his daughter is amazing and melts into the familiar twisting around Alisha’s finger, as if into a warm hug. “Okay, you win but I want you to keep your Iphone with you at all times and call me if anything seems wrong! Call me anyway, every hour or so to check in and know this! If I don’t hear from you, I’ll do the calling, and if you don’t answer, I’ll be ringing the door bell!” Alisha placates her dad with more hugs, sweet kisses, her biggest Hershey eyes, and sparkling smiles. She scoots back into her room to wait for her parent’s departure and watches television as she waits for the clock to display 9:00 a.m.

******************

By 8:30 a.m., Estelle is up and dressed. She takes a few moments to inspect the dress she’s chosen, a burgundy-print, summer dress that hugs her slim body modestly and ends in a soft ruffle just at the knee. She loves the juxtaposition of an autumn color in a summer dress and also, notices how it sets off her green eyes. At forty-seven, her arms are still beautifully slender but she chooses to cover them with a sheer, white, summer shrug. She also, takes note of a few grey hairs at her temple and wonders how long it will take for all of her dark brown hair to fade. Estelle can’t deny that she is a beautiful woman or the fact that she longs to be loved by a man and even have children but she also, believes it a fallacy for her to indulge herself in such fantasies. She stiffens her back, straightens her dress and hair one last time, turns from the full-length mirror and then stops dead. “What have I done? Why? Uggghhh….but I’ve done it. Too late now!” Caravana jumps from Estelle’s bed with a concerned, “Meow?” and tries to comfort his mistress. Estelle bends down, scoops him up, and holds him close on her chest as she rubs her cheek on his. “My Caravana! You are the only man for me. Love of my life and my son too! Where would I be without you?” The old, white Tom jumps to the floor just as Estelle hears the door-bell ring.

Estelle walks curtly toward the front entryway, stops to straighten herself one last time, and breathing deep opens the door. “Hello, Ms. Williams! I’m here! I’m not late! Aren’t you glad to see me!” Estelle lets her breath out in a huge sigh and reservedly responds, “Good morning Miss Alisha. Yes, I’m glad you are on time. Please, follow me into the kitchen.” Alisha starts to skip but Estelle simply, stops moving; and with one green-eyed- hard-stare, Alisha’s skip stops and without missing a step, blends into the walk of a mannerly, young woman. “This is where I’d like you to start Alisha. These dishes in the sink need to be rinsed and placed in the dishwasher and the countertops wiped down. The supplies you need are under the sink. Surely, a girl your age knows how to do dishes? I have a few calls to make. I’ll be in my office and when I return, I expect this work to be done.” Alisha knows how to answer, no matter what she is really thinking inside. “Yes, Ma’am!” Then when Estelle leaves the room, Alisha looks at the mess and whispers her real feelings. “Ewwww…that’s not for me!” Alisha plops down at the breakfast bar and loses herself in her Iphone.

“Alisha? What are you doing? Why is my kitchen still dirty?” The little girl puts on a sad face and walks over to the sink in hopes of making herself appear small and helpless in comparison to the mess. “I tried Ms. Williams… but… I have this cut on my finger, see?” Alisha holds up a forefinger wrapped in a Band-Aid for a not-too-close inspection. “It stings so badly when it gets wet! I just can’t make myself do it!” Estelle’s hands land on her hips in exasperation and she starts to respond in the way most natural to her in such situations, by just doing the work herself. She takes another look at Alisha standing helplessly and petulantly beside the sink full of dirty dishes; and in a flash sees the image of another woman superimpose over Alisha. Suddenly, drunken Emma has taken Alisha’s place, with her favored Bourbon and Coke sloshing in her glass in one hand and a cigarette in another. In an echo across time Estelle hears the familiar, “I just can’t do this anymore, Estelle! Your mother wasn’t meant for this drudgery! If that dad of yours wasn’t so lame, I’d have the kind of life I was meant to live!” The visage of Emma wobbles, slurps, takes a drag and Estelle feels that old impulse to run and fill her mother’s need, do her work for her, and hope for approval in return.

“Ms. Williams? Are you alright?” Alisha with real concern for how weird Estelle is behaving asks. “Ugh. Yes, I’m fine… Alisha.” Estelle answers while also, adjusting to being here in 2016 and not back in 1986. She takes another look at the little girl and like a long-sought piece of a jig-saw puzzle falling into place, understands Emma in a way she never could see before. No wonder her mother never seemed to know she had arms and legs of her own. She never had to use them. Estelle took another look at Alisha and with a resolve that feels cathartic for herself and also right for Alisha coolly states, “Life is full of difficulty, Alisha. Sometimes, we have to work around our pain in order to fulfill our obligations. There are rubber gloves under the sink to protect your hurt finger but I expect you to finish your job.” Alisha is shocked by this kind of answer and feels anger rise but then quickly, squelches it when faced with the unmovable expression of Estelle. “Yes, Ma’am, I will.” Alisha opens the cabinet beneath the sink, dons the gloves, and goes straight to work. Estelle grabs a cup of coffee to sit, watch Alisha work, and try to understand what just happened. “What’s going on with me?” she thinks to herself. “How can this little girl stir up so much from the past?” Sipping slowly, she watches Alisha’s now concentrated effort in her kitchen. Such a beautiful child, so intelligent, with so much promise, a little girl on the cusp of adolescence not much different than she’d once been…or probably even, Emma. Beautiful Emma, the helpless Queen. Had she been doted on and coddled as she suspected Maria coddled Alisha?“ It might be part of it but surely, not all of it. Nothing, especially human beings, is that simple but still, people can only become what they have opportunity to become.” Estelle’s thoughts stop here because she doesn’t want to delve any deeper into the questions surrounding her development, her stilted becoming.

“Alisha! That looks wonderful, dear. I’m proud of you. Now, let’s go out back. We’ll have an early lunch and then I’ll teach you the basics of drawing.” Alisha first inspects her finished task and is surprised by an unusual feeling of accomplishment when she sees how nice everything looks. Then she falls into her old habit of needing to be in charge and complains, “But…I don’t like drawing. I thought we’d paint or do some sculpture! Something exciting besides, I can’t draw a straight line, my Daddy says so.” Estelle replies firmly, “No child, we will start with the basics and the basic when it comes to creating fine pieces of art is drawing. There are no straight lines in nature but I will show you how to draw a nearly, straight line by a simple technique. We will also, explore circles, ellipses, and learn to connect them with straight lines to form images. Drawing is no more difficult than making beautiful letters. You simply need to learn how to do it. If you want to draw dear, you can learn to draw.” For the third time in two hours Alisha responds with a respectful, “Yes, Ma’am.”

Estelle and Alisha dine on fresh cucumber and cream cheese sandwiches and lose themselves in happy chatter about Caravana, the flower garden, and all the beautiful birds. Alisha forgets all about solving “The Mystery of the Lone Lady” as she is beginning to see her neighbor through eyes of respect and as a real person rather than a make-believe character. Estelle also enjoys this warm moment in time, feeling her somber thoughts float on the warm summer breeze and the uncomplicated conversation of the delightful, young girl. They move seamlessly from a lovely lunch to drawing lessons and soon, Alisha is enraptured in discovering the magic of line, as this lesson begins to uncover her inborn creativity. Estelle feels an inner awakening in the connection of pupil and teacher, as she guides Alisha’s self-discover by her own talented thoughts and expert hands. Alisha’s finished pieces are a reflection that is partly herself but also, partly Estelle, her new teacher. They are the expression of a burgeoning relationship and each of them is filled with new happiness as they inspect them together.

The sun begins to dip and Estelle realizes that it’s time for Alisha to return home. They say their goodbye’s and agree that Alisha will return day-after-tomorrow as Estelle, holding a tired Caravana, closes the door and notices the silence reclaim her home, as she has never noticed it before. Again Estelle asks, “What is happening to me? What is going on here?”

To be continued.

See previous posts in this series at http://www.joyindestructible.com/the-recluse-series or simply visit my Home Page and look for the drop-down menu just under the Header. Click on “The Recluse Series” and find posts listed in ascending order.

The Artist

On a sunny day my thoughts are lifted high

Stretched relaxed peacefully adrift in an azure sky

High pressure is my delight!

On a cloudy day my thoughts plummet to the earth

Heavy leaden weights of dusty sorrow bereft of mirth

Low pressure is my fright.

 

On a warm summer day my pain melts I feel strong

I love to play to work to laugh and sing many a happy song

In summer my world is right!

On a winter day I ache and I suffer from cabin fever

I read I write I contemplate and wait for warmer weather

Winter is my personal plight.

 

On a quiet day when the wind is still my soul and spirit rest

I gather strength from the atmosphere I am safe in Spirit’s nest

Still days are my source of Might.

On a blustery day when the wind howls sweeping the earth

I hunker down to wait my faith is tested I rely on my second birth

On a windy day I hold faith tight!

 

I am a finely tuned instrument subject to the atmosphere I measure

Pulled up pushed down lifted rested then tested by outside pressure

A thermometer an emotional barometer!

I am intrinsically sensitive excruciatingly aware of the invisible forces

The Spiritual Breath that animates the living sets all things on their courses

A sensitive a spiritual winds anemometer.

 

I am purposed to gather atmospheric information and package it as art

I am a natural-emotional –spiritual-data-base predicting weather is my part

The information I gather is to share.

I ruminate I correlate I paint I write I create and present my data in a poem

I am a creative this is what I do the way I communicate Truth in teal ocean foam

An artist’s call lays the heart bare!

 

 

 

 

Fire of Culture

Colors bend, weave, and then fold…

Ideas lift, sift, and then turn all gold!

Meaning imbedded by truth so bold!

A story is born, then grows to unfold…

From the mind’s misty shadows told.

Written down in a fashion to be sold,

Print on young heart new mind mold.

Dreams, legends, all tales long retold,

Myths to pass down on a night so cold,

Warm fires of culture to give and hold.

Tune of Heart

Oh! Listen to the new tune playing upon my heart!

It’s light as feather stirred by emotional weather…

Lifts by the sun; drifts with moon; love to impart!

Sets dreams aquiver, light of inspiration to deliver…

Dips down in a sad swoon, dream-despairing-heart…

Melancholy blue savor, open Door for sad-believer…

Breath of Life re-stirs my sensitive’s feather-heart!

Spirit Wind of Savior, blows away feelings-deceiver!

Strum Your melody; melt my tragedy; purify my art!

Song I sing to brighten other in heart-fickle weather…

New joyful tune, sun or moon, plays upon my heart!

 

Isolation Splendor

Welcome! To my virtual bubble;

This special place I’ve worked hard to create.

It’s free from all pain and trouble!

I sit, I scroll, I click, I sift, new reality I replicate!

High-Definition-Photo-Shop-double,

A slick profile, the Me I want to be; a duplicate.

Perfection that hides all the stubble,

Of the imperfect me, and allows me to insulate,

From all suffering outside Me bubble!

Ingenious, I’m sure you agree?

 

Welcome! But beware! Don’t say what I won’t hear!

I will block you, disengage, and ignore!

I will start scrolling, searching, find what I will hear!

Validate my opinion, make me feel more…

Sure of world created in my image; to isolate fear;

This bubble I digitally painted as reality tore,

Became too much to handle so, now find me here;

Denying all sorrow, ignoring a bloody war!

Suspending the truth, in chosen ignorance sheer!

I see you’ve done the same?

 

My bubble pops! Outside-in! Reality is over-ride!

One pop and crash then another pop and another!

Giant bam virtual crash! We run but we can’t hide!

From sin or sorrow or ignore blood of our brother!

Virtual images of gods tossing nature’s God aside?

Will delete! When flood-gates open and smother,

In consequences, those who truth and sin denied!

Splendor of virtual isolation lost…

 

Enter that world of feel and touch!

Experience truth’s painful cost..

Hugs, sun, love! We missed so much!

 

 

 

Joy for Christian Writers

Inside my very active mind,

Ideas in rapid succession ignite!

Searching for words to bind,

Coalesce; idea with feeling unite;

Expressions once born blind,

Mate in reason by words I write;

Share human wisdom I find,

An expression of self; often trite;

Words and lust left to grind,

Carnal onyx thought needs light;

Oh! Calm my overactive mind!

Satisfy my compulsion! To write,

Truth in poetic lines, un-bind!

 

Quieted mind enabled receive;

A truth lands lightly, as soft feather;

Stilled heart enabled to believe!

And held to Father by Spirit’s tether;

Should I fail to write I will grieve!

Suffer failure; and in ebony weather,

Face the fate unbelievers receive;

Writer’s joy is in surrender to Father!

His Words I’m unable to conceive;

Breathe into quieted mind no bother;

Wisdom by faith in Jesus, retrieve,

Save to encourage sister and brother;

Words for all whom willing, believe!

 

The Wordsmith’s Choice

A Wordsmith reverently opens his paint box of words;

Expertly organized: color, texture, taste, sound, and sight;

To interlace appropriate names given motion by verbs;

Carefully align; hammer into shape; shine a favorable light;

On a treasured nugget of truth, a thought in safety girds,

The framework of culture; the very heart of nation’s might;

Wordsmiths find joy and purpose in high use of words.

 

A Wordsmith carelessly digs in search of a prurient word,

In disheveled box, looking for the right red and darkest black;

To scandalize, incite lust, create excitement, and be heard;

Red raw meat to draw them, in hopes of green bills in a stack!

Carefully places words in artful but base advertising blurb;

Hide death at the core; no care for society going off the track;

Purpose undermined by greed, joy is lost in truth deferred.