Sunday, August 31, 2008
birches
Sunday, August 24, 2008
Process
The last one shows the two-page spread of the "finished" images
(sketches). I like to work outside, but don't always have all the
pens and pencils I need out there, so I tend to go in and out.
Friday, August 22, 2008
reproduction??
paper (left) and then, since it was on a note to Keith that I was
going to give him, I made a copy for myself (right). Check out the
difference in color! Of course these copies aren't exact, either, but
they are closer than that. I was using a conon MP600 scanner which
probably has an autowhite balance function, but no directions I can
see on how to override that! DUH!
Sunday, August 17, 2008
The D of Spades
cards adn playing cards I am creating as part of two books I am
working on.
One is a child's Alphabet picture book. Each of the four suits is
represented for each letter with a little caption.
The other is an older children's (young adult) illustrated fiction
with a story that begins (perhaps) like this:
"I had a dream last night, Ted."
"I hate dreams, Lia, You know I hate hearing your dreams. Please
don't tell me. Just shut up, okay?"
"I found a playing card, like your favorite deck. only instead of
being the Ace of hearts or the one of clubs, it was the D of Spades!
And it had dragons on it. And they could talk and help you with your
game."
"That's pretty cool. Could you draw a picture of it for me?"
"Sure, if you stop being so mean to me."
"I can't promise that. Sure, I'll stop being mean--but my
fingers are crossed behind my back. Aw, come on, Lia, just draw it
for me."
"Well, okay, I'll try. Since you're so sweet."
After many more dreams, Lia discovers that the cards are part of a game and can also be used to tell fortunes and she and Ted get dragged into a strange mystery.
Wednesday, June 04, 2008
Celebrate Small Successes (Spring at Shangri-La)
Celebrate Small Successes
I am a hard task -master to myself (and sometimes to others, though I don't mean to be.) I have high expectations, at least about certain things.
But Sonja Lyubomirsky says, "Celebrate small successes. Celebrate steps along the way." She says, "Make a goal, and then make subgoals, and then, if necessary, subgoals of that. Celebrate each success, small, medium and large."
So, here is one of my goals: to complete and publish the Geraldine manuscripts. This is a cycle of poems about a retarded (brain damaged) girl/woman who I once knew. In order to complete the manuscript, I first have to finish writing all the poems as first drafts, and revise them. The poems I am attempting to write are about pivotal points in Geraldine's life, as well as some representative daily poems.
So, I am celebrating a small success by sharing this early draft of my new poem I just wrote this morning with you. It is odd to start in the middle of the book, especially at such a pivotal point. So, before you read this poem, which remember, is not done yet, let me know if you would like to read the earlier poems FIRST so as not to spoil the surprise. LOL! Anyways, I choose to be happy because this one tiny milestone in a vast huge larger project is completed--the first draft of a new poem.
I choose NOT to be discouraged by the fact that there are many more steps to go, but to take ONE DAY AT A TIME and do what needs to be done. The journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step, and I have already taken many steps (though many remain to be taken.)
Spring at Shangri-La (How Geraldine Returns to her Lifework, May 1990)
Aunt Geraldine places a ball of warm fluff in my cupped hand.
Tiny. Cheeping. She beams. In the box, eleven more. Ricky
stands proud at her side. Beaming too. Their faces shine like twin
headlamps in the dim coop. And Ricky, so oddly familiar.
I study him, puzzled. Geraldine adjusts the light
over the box, adds fresh water. Scoops out some messy shavings
and adds new. Slow, deliberate, careful. Chickens again,
her lifework, perhaps. Future eggs for the Home and neighbors.
Future dinners, too. Hard to imagine this mite as dinner.
I follow them out to the garden. Ricky's plot and Geraldine's
lie side by side in the patchwork of resident gardens.
Here is Grandma Ethel's plot, beside Geraldine's, on the other side.
Their three are the neatest. Their three have the most plants.
Tomatoes, squash, peas, beans, carrots. Potatoes. And more.
Lacy leaves, round leaves, hairy leaves. All small and newly
sprouted or planted and watered, from the look of them.
Some of the other plots have nothing but weeds.
Or a few straggly, wilted plants.
I wonder how Grandma Ethel works from her wheelchair
until Ricky confides that Geraldine does all three. He helps.
Sometimes, Grandma Ethel gets pushed out to supervise.
Today, she is inside playing bridge with Marjorie, Ellie,
and other residents. Her memory for card games has survived
her dementia so far. Strange workings of the mind.
Now we head out beyond the gardens. I follow Geraldine
and Ricky follows me. We walk single file down the narrow
path between the long rows of baby corn plants. This row
is well-trodden. They've been here before. Geraldine walks
with amazing grace and spryness for her size. She seems
to be getting younger. The house, barns, coops and woodshed
recede, grow evermore distant, lost in vast flat fields.
The hugeness of space here no longer feels as barren as it did
in snow. We walk and walk. Now through a wheat field. Now
through oats. A field of alfalfa. Another of corn. Woods loom ahead.
Ashes oaks and cherries are bare, maples have tiny leaves.
The forest floor is a sea of trilliums and other wildflowers.
We sit on a glacial erratic to admire them. Aunt Geraldine
and Ricky smile and smile. Sun streams through the tiny leaves
overhead in rays though a faint mist in the trees. I think I hear
the angels again, but perhaps it is only the birds. Geraldine
and Ricky hold hands and look at me shyly. "Al, we want
to get married," Ricky says. "Marjorie says we can, if you let us."
Mary Stebbins Taitt
-------this line and everything below this line is not part of the poem------
080604-0929-1b (Keith, earlier drafts, in "current work" looseleaf.)
I am a hard task -master to myself (and sometimes to others, though I don't mean to be.) I have high expectations, at least about certain things.
But Sonja Lyubomirsky says, "Celebrate small successes. Celebrate steps along the way." She says, "Make a goal, and then make subgoals, and then, if necessary, subgoals of that. Celebrate each success, small, medium and large."
So, here is one of my goals: to complete and publish the Geraldine manuscripts. This is a cycle of poems about a retarded (brain damaged) girl/woman who I once knew. In order to complete the manuscript, I first have to finish writing all the poems as first drafts, and revise them. The poems I am attempting to write are about pivotal points in Geraldine's life, as well as some representative daily poems.
So, I am celebrating a small success by sharing this early draft of my new poem I just wrote this morning with you. It is odd to start in the middle of the book, especially at such a pivotal point. So, before you read this poem, which remember, is not done yet, let me know if you would like to read the earlier poems FIRST so as not to spoil the surprise. LOL! Anyways, I choose to be happy because this one tiny milestone in a vast huge larger project is completed--the first draft of a new poem.
I choose NOT to be discouraged by the fact that there are many more steps to go, but to take ONE DAY AT A TIME and do what needs to be done. The journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step, and I have already taken many steps (though many remain to be taken.)
Spring at Shangri-La (How Geraldine Returns to her Lifework, May 1990)
Aunt Geraldine places a ball of warm fluff in my cupped hand.
Tiny. Cheeping. She beams. In the box, eleven more. Ricky
stands proud at her side. Beaming too. Their faces shine like twin
headlamps in the dim coop. And Ricky, so oddly familiar.
I study him, puzzled. Geraldine adjusts the light
over the box, adds fresh water. Scoops out some messy shavings
and adds new. Slow, deliberate, careful. Chickens again,
her lifework, perhaps. Future eggs for the Home and neighbors.
Future dinners, too. Hard to imagine this mite as dinner.
I follow them out to the garden. Ricky's plot and Geraldine's
lie side by side in the patchwork of resident gardens.
Here is Grandma Ethel's plot, beside Geraldine's, on the other side.
Their three are the neatest. Their three have the most plants.
Tomatoes, squash, peas, beans, carrots. Potatoes. And more.
Lacy leaves, round leaves, hairy leaves. All small and newly
sprouted or planted and watered, from the look of them.
Some of the other plots have nothing but weeds.
Or a few straggly, wilted plants.
I wonder how Grandma Ethel works from her wheelchair
until Ricky confides that Geraldine does all three. He helps.
Sometimes, Grandma Ethel gets pushed out to supervise.
Today, she is inside playing bridge with Marjorie, Ellie,
and other residents. Her memory for card games has survived
her dementia so far. Strange workings of the mind.
Now we head out beyond the gardens. I follow Geraldine
and Ricky follows me. We walk single file down the narrow
path between the long rows of baby corn plants. This row
is well-trodden. They've been here before. Geraldine walks
with amazing grace and spryness for her size. She seems
to be getting younger. The house, barns, coops and woodshed
recede, grow evermore distant, lost in vast flat fields.
The hugeness of space here no longer feels as barren as it did
in snow. We walk and walk. Now through a wheat field. Now
through oats. A field of alfalfa. Another of corn. Woods loom ahead.
Ashes oaks and cherries are bare, maples have tiny leaves.
The forest floor is a sea of trilliums and other wildflowers.
We sit on a glacial erratic to admire them. Aunt Geraldine
and Ricky smile and smile. Sun streams through the tiny leaves
overhead in rays though a faint mist in the trees. I think I hear
the angels again, but perhaps it is only the birds. Geraldine
and Ricky hold hands and look at me shyly. "Al, we want
to get married," Ricky says. "Marjorie says we can, if you let us."
Mary Stebbins Taitt
-------this line and everything below this line is not part of the poem------
080604-0929-1b (Keith, earlier drafts, in "current work" looseleaf.)
Tuesday, May 06, 2008
Wet
This is the new poem from the Geraldine Chapbook, Wet
Wet (How Geraldine became Jochabed)* (February 20, 1968)
Fifteen seconds before Aldy howls, Geraldine's breasts twitch,
tingle and dribble. She gallops toward the nursery.
"Ignore him," shouts Beatrice, from upstairs. "He needs to learn
to go four hours without food."
Geraldine pauses, feels her breasts contract, feels
dampness spread across her dress front. Aldy screeches and wails.
Geraldine flinches, hugs herself. Tight. She waits, listens
for Beatrice, hears only Aldy. Wipes tears
on the back of her hand. Then creeps, one step at a time,
down the hall. She pauses, steps into the nursery, inches
toward the bassinet. Pauses, still
listening for Beatrice.
Aldy's face is red and wrinkled, his mouth wide and toothless,
his fingers curled into flailing fists. Geraldine lifts
the squalling infant to her breast, breathes
a sigh of relief as he latches on
and sucks.
"Geraldine! No, don't!" Somewhere,
Beatrice hollers.
Geraldine sits in the rocker by the window, rocks and rocks,
first fast, then slower and slower. Sings. "Hush little baby,
don't say a word, mama's gonna buy you a mocking bird."
She smells Aldy's warm milk-smell,
wipes tiny beads of sweat from his brow, smooths
his fine, soft hair. Feels the curve of his head in the cup
of her hand. Light from the window shines through his skin,
making it glow, lighting a tracery of tiny veins. Aldy's little hands
pat her breasts. He's warm, close, sweet and hers. Like Ricky.
Just like Ricky
was.
"Don't go to him so soon, you'll spoil him," Beatrice says,
standing at the nursery door now, scowling. Geraldine
doesn't look up, but feels her sister's scowl thick in the air
like the heaviness clinging to her heart. "If that mocking bird
don't sing, mama's gonna buy you a diamond ring," she sings,
softly, almost in a whisper. "You don't have any money,"
Beatrice says. "And you don't have any diamonds,
and you never will. Remember, I'm Aldy's mother.
You're the wet nurse, and that's all. You need
to do as you're told."
Mary Stebbins Taitt
*Jochabed, Moses' mother hid him in a reed boat; became his nurse (endnote in the ms)
-----this line and everything below the line is not part of the poem----
080506-1215-5b; 080505-1533-4f; 080504-1130-3b; 080503-2235-2c; 080502-2105, 1b
Fifteen seconds before Aldy howls, Geraldine's breasts twitch,
tingle and dribble. She gallops toward the nursery.
"Ignore him," shouts Beatrice, from upstairs. "He needs to learn
to go four hours without food."
Geraldine pauses, feels her breasts contract, feels
dampness spread across her dress front. Aldy screeches and wails.
Geraldine flinches, hugs herself. Tight. She waits, listens
for Beatrice, hears only Aldy. Wipes tears
on the back of her hand. Then creeps, one step at a time,
down the hall. She pauses, steps into the nursery, inches
toward the bassinet. Pauses, still
listening for Beatrice.
Aldy's face is red and wrinkled, his mouth wide and toothless,
his fingers curled into flailing fists. Geraldine lifts
the squalling infant to her breast, breathes
a sigh of relief as he latches on
and sucks.
"Geraldine! No, don't!" Somewhere,
Beatrice hollers.
Geraldine sits in the rocker by the window, rocks and rocks,
first fast, then slower and slower. Sings. "Hush little baby,
don't say a word, mama's gonna buy you a mocking bird."
She smells Aldy's warm milk-smell,
wipes tiny beads of sweat from his brow, smooths
his fine, soft hair. Feels the curve of his head in the cup
of her hand. Light from the window shines through his skin,
making it glow, lighting a tracery of tiny veins. Aldy's little hands
pat her breasts. He's warm, close, sweet and hers. Like Ricky.
Just like Ricky
was.
"Don't go to him so soon, you'll spoil him," Beatrice says,
standing at the nursery door now, scowling. Geraldine
doesn't look up, but feels her sister's scowl thick in the air
like the heaviness clinging to her heart. "If that mocking bird
don't sing, mama's gonna buy you a diamond ring," she sings,
softly, almost in a whisper. "You don't have any money,"
Beatrice says. "And you don't have any diamonds,
and you never will. Remember, I'm Aldy's mother.
You're the wet nurse, and that's all. You need
to do as you're told."
Mary Stebbins Taitt
*Jochabed, Moses' mother hid him in a reed boat; became his nurse (endnote in the ms)
-----this line and everything below the line is not part of the poem----
080506-1215-5b; 080505-1533-4f; 080504-1130-3b; 080503-2235-2c; 080502-2105, 1b
--
I am certain of nothing but the Heart's affections and the truth of the Imagination- John Keats
Mary
Friday, April 11, 2008
Oops, The Night that Nothing Happened, again
Oops, I emailed/posted this too soon, just spent a couple more hours working on this. If you like poetry, you may want to read this one. If you don't care, and have already read the other one, skip it. The story is the same, I worked on the language, which is part of what poetry is. (Also worked on the formatting so I hope it comes out better!)
The Night that Nothing Happened
Jean proposed the idea. Easy to imagine as we drove across Nebraska,
flat all day, sunny. Laughing, counting hawks, taking turns at the fur-covered wheel.
The plan? We'd save money, lodge free by sleeping at a jail. Simple.
She'd read about it somewhere. We'd brag about it later. We'd tell tales
to our grandchildren. We'd do it on the way back, too. We drove on, told stories
to each other. In our log, we recorded the towns we passed: Oshkosh, Bridgeport,
Scott's Bluff, signs saying next gas 70 miles. Next gas 85 miles. Took pictures
of weathered rock formations, pronghorn antelopes leaping over sagebrush.
Sang with the wind whistling at the open windows: I've been working on the railroad
and Swing Low Sweet Chariot. In Wyoming—a day west of Iowa City, a day east
of Pocatello—we decided to stop. It wasn't Cheyenne or Laramie, but a tiny town
120 miles to the next gas. A hamburger at Mabel's Diner, a bowl of chili. Then
it was time to test the idea. At the jail-house door, we fidgeted,
each trying to slip behind the other. Which of us spoke first
when the Sheriff asked what we wanted? We looked back at our car,
forgetting the bravado of earlier talk.
But one of us asked. Probably she did. The Sheriff cocked his head,
puzzled. Looked us over. We were twenty,
slender, had curves. Our breasts pressed
suddenly on the insides of our T-shirts. Big
and soft. We were alone with the Sheriff. He loomed, particularly male,
large and strong. No chaperon, no witness. I looked at the door,
took a step back. Jean took a step forward.
He said, "I will have to lock you in
for the night." We nodded. Two cells, two beds. One big key.
We went in; the doors clanked shut. He sat at his desk. We sat on our cots
and looked at him. Later, he approached our cells, keys jingling. Said
he was leaving. Turned off the light
and left us alone. Shadows of iron bars divided the floor.
Stripes of setting sun, neon lights from Main Street, a sliver of moon
sinking. Perhaps Jean was actually calm. She talked, spoke
as if we were still in the car. Still free. Maybe I spoke too, pretending
to be having fun. But even if I spoke, even if I smiled, I huddled
scared in a dark, close space, smaller than a jail, tighter than a narrow cell.
The stripes shifted; the segmented sky darkened. The moon intersected
each bar, pressed and stretched dim shadows on the floor. I watched
bats flicker across a sky splashed with more stars than I'd ever seen.
Tried to pick out the dipper among them, looked in vain for Orion. Lay awake
and listened to the catch of my own quiet breath. Don't let me have to stay
here again, I whispered to the stars, long after Jean's breathing slowed.
Not ever. In the morning, the sheriff returned
and unlocked the cells. The outer door opened to an expanse
of Wyoming sunshine. At Mabel's, we bought bacon, eggs, home fries
and coffee for a dollar. Ate outside on picnic tables, quiet in the morning chill.
Mary Stebbins
for Jean Kilquist
The Night that Nothing Happened
Jean proposed the idea. Easy to imagine as we drove across Nebraska,
flat all day, sunny. Laughing, counting hawks, taking turns at the fur-covered wheel.
The plan? We'd save money, lodge free by sleeping at a jail. Simple.
She'd read about it somewhere. We'd brag about it later. We'd tell tales
to our grandchildren. We'd do it on the way back, too. We drove on, told stories
to each other. In our log, we recorded the towns we passed: Oshkosh, Bridgeport,
Scott's Bluff, signs saying next gas 70 miles. Next gas 85 miles. Took pictures
of weathered rock formations, pronghorn antelopes leaping over sagebrush.
Sang with the wind whistling at the open windows: I've been working on the railroad
and Swing Low Sweet Chariot. In Wyoming—a day west of Iowa City, a day east
of Pocatello—we decided to stop. It wasn't Cheyenne or Laramie, but a tiny town
120 miles to the next gas. A hamburger at Mabel's Diner, a bowl of chili. Then
it was time to test the idea. At the jail-house door, we fidgeted,
each trying to slip behind the other. Which of us spoke first
when the Sheriff asked what we wanted? We looked back at our car,
forgetting the bravado of earlier talk.
But one of us asked. Probably she did. The Sheriff cocked his head,
puzzled. Looked us over. We were twenty,
slender, had curves. Our breasts pressed
suddenly on the insides of our T-shirts. Big
and soft. We were alone with the Sheriff. He loomed, particularly male,
large and strong. No chaperon, no witness. I looked at the door,
took a step back. Jean took a step forward.
He said, "I will have to lock you in
for the night." We nodded. Two cells, two beds. One big key.
We went in; the doors clanked shut. He sat at his desk. We sat on our cots
and looked at him. Later, he approached our cells, keys jingling. Said
he was leaving. Turned off the light
and left us alone. Shadows of iron bars divided the floor.
Stripes of setting sun, neon lights from Main Street, a sliver of moon
sinking. Perhaps Jean was actually calm. She talked, spoke
as if we were still in the car. Still free. Maybe I spoke too, pretending
to be having fun. But even if I spoke, even if I smiled, I huddled
scared in a dark, close space, smaller than a jail, tighter than a narrow cell.
The stripes shifted; the segmented sky darkened. The moon intersected
each bar, pressed and stretched dim shadows on the floor. I watched
bats flicker across a sky splashed with more stars than I'd ever seen.
Tried to pick out the dipper among them, looked in vain for Orion. Lay awake
and listened to the catch of my own quiet breath. Don't let me have to stay
here again, I whispered to the stars, long after Jean's breathing slowed.
Not ever. In the morning, the sheriff returned
and unlocked the cells. The outer door opened to an expanse
of Wyoming sunshine. At Mabel's, we bought bacon, eggs, home fries
and coffee for a dollar. Ate outside on picnic tables, quiet in the morning chill.
Mary Stebbins
for Jean Kilquist
The Night that Nothing Happened
There is something really messed up with the formatting. Supposed to be 4-line stanzas--looks fine on the original.
The Night that Nothing Happened
Jean proposed the idea. Easy to imagine as we drove across Nebraska,
flat all day, laughing, counting hawks, taking turns at the fur-covered wheel.
The plan? We'd save money, lodge free by sleeping at a jail. Simple.
She'd read about it somewhere. We'd brag about it later. We'd tell stories
to our grandchildren. We'd do it on the way back, too. We drove on, told stories
to each other. In our log, we recorded the towns we passed: Oshkosh, Bridgeport,
Scott's Bluff, signs saying next gas 70 miles. Next gas 85 miles. Took pictures
of weathered rock formations, pronghorn antelopes leaping over sagebrush.
Sang into the wind rushing into open windows: I've been working on the railroad
and Swing Low Sweet Chariot. In Wyoming—a day west of Iowa City, a day east of Pocatello—
we decided to stop. It wasn't Cheyenne or Laramie, but a tiny town 120 miles to the next gas.
A hamburger at Mabel's diner, a bowl of chili. Then it was time
to test the idea. At the jail door, we fidgeted,
each trying to slip behind the other. Which of us spoke first
when the Sheriff asked what we wanted? We looked back at our car,
forgetting the bravado of earlier talk.
But one of us asked. Probably her. The Sheriff cocked his head,
puzzled. Looked us over. We were twenty,
slender, had curves. Our breasts pressed
suddenly on the insides of our T-shirts. Big
and soft. We were alone with the Sheriff. He suddenly seemed particularly
male, large, strong. No chaperone, no witness. I looked at the door,
took a step back. Jean took a step forward.
He said, "I will have to lock you in
for the night." We nodded. Two cells, two beds. One big key.
We went in; the door clanked shut. He sat at his desk. We sat on our cots
and looked at him. Later, he approached our cells, keys jingling. Said
he was leaving. Turned off the light
and left us alone. Shadows of bars divided the floor.
Stripes of setting sun, neon lights from Main Street, the moon.
Perhaps Jean was actually calm. She talked, spoke
as if we were still in the car. Still free. Maybe I spoke too, pretending
to be having fun. But if I spoke, even if I smiled,
I huddled in a dark, close space, smaller than a jail, tighter than a narrow cell.
Lay watching the shifting stripes and segmented sky. Awake. Not wanting
to stay there again. Not ever. In the morning, the sheriff returned and unlocked the cells.
The outer door opened to an expanse of Wyoming sunshine. At Mabel's,
we bought bacon, eggs, home fries and coffee for a dollar. Ate outside on picnic tables,
quiet in the morning chill.
Mary Stebbins
For Jean Kilquist
At Ellen Bass Workshop
080411; 050316c; 050315, 3-12-05 1b (not part of poem)
Wednesday, April 09, 2008
Attack!
Attack!
A warning growl alerts me. Mountain Lion, hidden
on an overhanging beam. The throaty growl intensifies.
If I run, she will leap. Keeping the beam between us,
I back away, pencil clutched in my teeth to hold it at bay.
I slide under a quilt for cover. Puny protection
when she jumps down and long claws gash my flesh
through the fabric. I am afraid to call for help. If my daughters
come, the lion might hurt them. I grab her jaw. Teeth pierce
my hand, like nails. In spite of the pain, I hold on. And cry out.
I try to scream, say help. Help. Help! Still worrying
about the girls. I try to scream, but my voice whispers.
Weak, nearly inaudible. No sounds of rescue, only silence.
I try again, and again fail. I suck in air, gather my strength,
shout, HELP aloud and loud, and wake myself
in another bed in another room in another world.
My heart crashes, and panting, I listen. Have I wakened
my son yelling? No sound. Catching my breath,
flexing my injured hand, I lie still while dream fragments
fall away around me. But another shell of tenacious dream
encloses me. I push out again, and yet again, but am surrounded.
In here with me, a lion still sits on my chest sheathing
and unsheathing its claws.
Mary Stebbins Taitt
080409
this is a brand new dream poem.
You can see the dreamwork here.
A warning growl alerts me. Mountain Lion, hidden
on an overhanging beam. The throaty growl intensifies.
If I run, she will leap. Keeping the beam between us,
I back away, pencil clutched in my teeth to hold it at bay.
I slide under a quilt for cover. Puny protection
when she jumps down and long claws gash my flesh
through the fabric. I am afraid to call for help. If my daughters
come, the lion might hurt them. I grab her jaw. Teeth pierce
my hand, like nails. In spite of the pain, I hold on. And cry out.
I try to scream, say help. Help. Help! Still worrying
about the girls. I try to scream, but my voice whispers.
Weak, nearly inaudible. No sounds of rescue, only silence.
I try again, and again fail. I suck in air, gather my strength,
shout, HELP aloud and loud, and wake myself
in another bed in another room in another world.
My heart crashes, and panting, I listen. Have I wakened
my son yelling? No sound. Catching my breath,
flexing my injured hand, I lie still while dream fragments
fall away around me. But another shell of tenacious dream
encloses me. I push out again, and yet again, but am surrounded.
In here with me, a lion still sits on my chest sheathing
and unsheathing its claws.
Mary Stebbins Taitt
080409
this is a brand new dream poem.
You can see the dreamwork here.
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