Monday, December 6, 2021

All work and no play sucks


Mustang Sally

Devil or Angel
Dark Horse
Feather Talk

Once upon a time, I went through a phase of drawing the female persuasions. I called them soul drawings, and when one of them drew herself, some stuff then happened in my life, which I figured was spawned by the lovemaking on my canvases. So, sometimes I also called them shaman drawings. More years later, I thought I recognized the damsels as women who'd been significant in my life. Maybe they wuz trying to help me get more in touch with my inner feminine 👸. 

The drawings were created on a diagonal(cock-eyed) by my turning the drawing pad so that the top of the drawing was one of the corners. I did this so I could hang the drawings with a push pin on a wall in my home, and they would be right side up. Rectangles are male, diamonds are a girl's best friend. Once I was shown in a dream that I was cocking most of the drawings one way and I needed to cock more drawings the other way, which I did.

My poetry got a bit passionate when this flowed out of my pen in 1994:

He feels deep beauty in the dark pool from which his writings flow. She clings to him like fine silk, precious oil. She feels solid, compressed, like … a black pearl, growing from inside out, ever larger with each stroke of his pen, pushing her precious waters over her banks into his dreams and life.

And this poem:

Rosa Mystica
Sweet Mystery
Bride of Christ
Living Water
without which 
there are no rainbows
and God is dead

And this poem, which kinda clued me into what God was really up to:

The sacred prism
through which souls are refracted
into their elemental parts,
purified in Holy Fire,
then one-forged
and sent on their way
to not even God knows where,
simply because  they are all
unique emanations of God,
evolving ...

Before all of that were a couple of poems that sorta set the stage for a feminine revolution in me:

I happened upon a mockingbird
singing his fool head off.
I asked him how and why he sang?
But all he did was look ahead,
all he did was sing.
He never turned to see if I was watching,
Or listened for money jingling in my pockets,
Or asked if I liked his music,
Or expected a recording contract.
He was too busy singing
to pay any attention to me.
Thus did I learn
the greatest sin of all
is to kill a mockingbird. 

Who invented the rule that poetry must rhyme, have pentameter, be cast into verse? Yes, please tell me, just please tell me who invented that really silly rule? Surely it wasn't the maker of the first stone - otherwise, there'd be no stones to break all those slavin' rules!

Much later came a little bitty nuclear bomb from a cowgirl who sometimes got the blues:

Pigs in mud
All want the security of the well fed pig.
Horror at the baseness unrecognized.
A lifetime spent in shirt stuffing.
And pen comparison.
Is truth more palatable when honeyed?
Is a stark soulscape less so with the eyes of Monet?
May my affectations always be known and understood.

A few more flings.
Mary Poppins
Welcome home, Kali, I hope

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