Sunday, February 23, 2014

Red


Orignal Watercolor Work by ZenMama
The trees are red and foreboding.
Stripped of their clothing,
exposed and unable to hide.


The river runs narrow.
A place to dream and clench
strength from the dirt
until your hands are hurt
and the labor lays your body down
as one, a fetter to the earth.


One breath held too tight,
Or released with a whisper blow
Downstream runs down
into the dark spiral all around
which comforts you only
in your fears as a home you know.


The sound of going under again and on again
until possible the last time before you sleep
When you give up the brawl and  the clash
And realize you must fall, over the fall,
waterfall, jagged and sharp, and splash
into waters still and painfully deep.



There are more trees laid red and bare,
compelled to grow without their voice
floating in a haze of washed out violet light.
Nothing to hold them to make them right,
without their sound, they can take to the night,
beyond the hazy violet light,
and fly above the wintery falls and blustery noise
of the one who failed to give them air.


Their colors change as elegant, brilliant glare
the God, the Mother, a higher power and holy son.
The place of golden orange I knew was there
I wished for it upon thousands of ones
where lovely trees who have come undone
can transcend into rapture without compare
and multiply limbs and leaves and color to share,
never again to be red, exposed and bare.





Friday, August 31, 2012

Tall, Tall, Tree House


My father was a handsome, ugly man

who visited me in my dream last night.

He tried to wish me well.

To lead me to higher ground.

He built a tree house in the sky.

Miles and miles high.

Enough to make the neighbor spirits gawk

and fold their arms while they pulled up a chair

to make sure they could see

when his beautiful, ugly duagher would come

to meet him there.

Thursday, July 12, 2012

An Artist Blooms

An Original Watercolor by ZenMama
I was told I had the misfortune of being born into a non artistic family and therefore it wasn't by fault I couldn't color as well as my best friend, Donna.

I suck at Pictionary.

I've crocheted uneven scarves for every member of my family. I even attempted a doggy sweater but it was more of a doggy straight jacket.

I've "cast on" a knitting needle 45 times but couldn't knit or pearl to save my life.

My sewing endeavors are limited to a 1970's tube top I made in the 1970's. It came already formed to look like a tube top, I simply had to cut to size and sew one straight line. Nope!

When my friend's children were dressed in elaborate custom made Halloween costumes, my kids were ghosts and sad clowns who upon reflection, looked a lot like Heath Ledger's Joker.

I went through a craft phase in the 90's. I made early 90's floral creations in mauves and wedgewood blues with large raffeta bows and I attached them to wreaths and vines and hung them all over my early 90's house.

Today I gaze longingly upon my beautiful friends with their ceaseless talents to sew and quilt and make jewelry and decorate and live gilded lives. They inspire me to want to be something more.

It can't be true, this misfortune of my birth. My dad went through a jewelry making phase, followed by the painting years and ending with basket weaving. I wear his jewelry and have his paintings and baskets displayed in my home.

My writing has always been my offering to the world but it is not enough. My eyes are drawn to art and my recently awakened soul feels a need to splash color on a canvas and see if something creeps out of it in a serendipitous manner. So I offer you my first sketch with watercolor pencils. The paper I used is a tiny 5 inch square. It was enough. I had five pencils to work with and they were enough.

I am an artist and I am enough. It is called "Fifteen".

Friday, July 6, 2012

Spit Splutter and Shed

Somewhere between last July and now, I lost my way. That is an interesting expression, don't you think? What is this way, of mine, that I lost?

I used to write, sharing the brutal details of my life in a sometimes humorous but mostly shocking way. Then along came the considerably foul and wretched incubus brothers known as anger, bitterness, resentment, defeat, hopelessness and their inglorious mother, depression. I think anger and resentment stopped by first as evidenced by the majority of my posts; every reference point or interesting topic in my life ended with an embittered diatribe railing against the ex and his maternal representative.

I was pissed. Spitting mad. And that's saying something cause southern women don't spit.

But underneath all that hellfire, loathing, pitiful-me-pouting resided a frightened girl so entombed in fear she was cut off from her own soul. Having fancied myself a soulful girl, you can imagine how that felt or rather, didn't feel.

The first year after Mr. Sunshine went to prison, we did okay; meaning, I was okay. Then in August of 2011 I lost my prominent long term job. I wanted to move back to Oklahoma, to tuck my tail firmly in and run like the wind but that was a page I was not allowed to turn back. From that hot summer day to this one, here I stand, still pissed.

I wrote the previous post exactly one year ago today. It was enlightening in a not so uplifting way to read it and discover my feelings haven't changed much. I could easily tear off into a rant right this very minute, stocked with an arsenal of the atrocities committed by those who continue to joyously dance on the top of my head, including the aforementioned demon spirits. But I won't.

Instead I would like to give this a whirl:


If you read the last post then you will understand when I say I am ready to shed my own skin. Mr. Sunshine gets out of prison this fall and I am terrified. Our lives will experience another upheaval; emotional battles, court battles, old grievances and new axes to grind will splutter and reign unless I can embrace the celestial radiant light provided by my sisters Grace, Joy and Gratitude and our mother Courage.

Wish me luck, for a new journey has begun.