Monday, May 18, 2015


Look, good swaying people, good people with good vision, good eyes that see and see and see! Look at us! Visualize the vision we bring to you from upstairs! There is a long lady upstairs. Standing sideways but gazing at you…black hair, black eyebrows, red lips, red dress.  Imagine her into existence before you, paint like flowing flesh and flesh like flowing paint. Imagine a glowing flowing long red dress like a tall waterfall! See us! See Émilie Charmy!  Bring her paint before you, as we sing and dance her into existence before you. This is incantation. This is the charm of Émilie Charmy! Charmed by Charmy! Bring her before you! Visualize, touch the vision, feel  the force of the long red dress like a tall waterfall. Stroke your imagination. Émilie Charmy is here among you. Free! Frank! Forceful! Questioning! Parisian! Brave, free, frank, female…strong in paint, strong In flesh, strong in frankness, forthright before you,  paint flowing like a waterfall,  flesh flowing like paint,  a long red dress as tall as a waterfall. Visualize her freedom, her frankness, her force, her questioning black eyes, her appraising black eyebrows, the black heaven of her black hair, her freedom.  Brave, free, frank, female. Visualize her intelligent desire.  She is appraising you. She questions you. You question her. You judge her joy. She judges your joy. Joy judges joy. Freedom judges freedom. Paint forever fresh! Vigorous before you. The vigor of questions, the vigor of your glances. You and she exchange freedom.  A dance of questioning. Feel the dance of questioning. Look. Feel what you see. Feel her questions looking at you. You look. You feel the red tall waterfall of the long fresh dress. The freshness of the long red dress. The freshness of the questioning eyes. Her force, her joy, her intelligent desires! Feel the flow of her ferocious sexy goodness.  Sexy intelligence.  As fresh as flesh.  As fresh as paint. As fresh as the long red dress like a tall waterfall. Follow the flow!

You and she and we exchange dances, glances, charged and charmed by the strong smart woman upstairs, now before you here in vigorous vision. Wave your red dresses, the red dresses of your imagination. Shake out your red scarves like the flags of intelligent desire. Shake out your red scarves. You and she and we are incantation, together shaping  enchantment, the charm of Émilie Charmy. Chant and vision must be shaped by intelligent desire, by the shaping dance of joy judging joy, painted eyes and flesh eyes together making enchantment. We charm Émilie Charmy into existence before us. Slightly laughing she teaches us her spells and helps us to exist. Incantation! We chant our vision into existence, we charm our souls into vigor, into flow we can feel, flowing with the frank freshness of Émilie Charmy. This is a healthy trance, a democratic trance, unforced, strongly amiable. Our magic spell is taught us by a rare Parisian, a woman breaking into the heaven of art, the heaven of flesh and soul. Woman painter teaches us her bravery, her intelligent desire. Even her still lifes explode into wild rainbow health! Her parlors where women seemingly do middleclass things are changing before our eyes into strange rooms where strange love resides. O enigmatic atmosphere of her parlors where form transforms itself and transforms you. What are you watching….a parlor or a happy bordello!  Victorian décor or paint shaping desire revealed. This is a salubrious trick. What we thought was middleclass is really intense in its calm.

Desire revealed! Not really just another parlor. A room for desire! Unafraid! There is no fear in Émilie Charmy! She unchained herself by her charm. Free, frank, brave woman… Parisian joyousness, smart, strong, amused. She is amused to reveal, to show, to judge and shape her intelligent desire.  She forms us, we form her, in mutual erotic intelligence. We all now exist, paint and flesh and strong smart woman…Parisian in the era where ANYTHING AT ALL could be conceived and brought into palpably amazing being. Sway your red dresses! Wave your red scarves! Dance your healthy trance! Let us exchange trances! Red lips chant!

 And all this goodness occurs approved of by the shining steel cloud of the wavy Jean Arp sculpture curvaceous nearby. Jean Arp approves and shines his approval upon us. We are observed by that steel cloud of a wavy sculpture holding a wavy hole through which we see reality.  Art as curvy as nature! The steel cloud bounces blessing upon us like sunlight! Raise up your red lips, red scarves!

Émilie Charmy, “Portrait,” oil on canvas, 1921. Courtesy of Pamela K. and William A. Royall, Jr. © 2014 Artists Rights Society (ARS), New York / ADAGP, Paris. Photo: Travis Fullerton

Tuesday, May 12, 2015

I’m Beginning to See and Feel

I’m beginning to see the light of the free flow of life, 
The light I must have in order to create the power.
I’m beginning to feel the power that flows through me,
The power that allows me to begin to blossom and burst forth.

I’m beginning to feel the light and energy of each day,
The day that brings free mornings and creating nights.
I’m beginning to turn the corner of new light of healing,
The light that warms me to walk with the power of healing.

My power comes from the light and my ancestors;
My ancestors lead me to the spirit.
The spirit enters me each day to feel the power of the ancestors;
My ancestors guide me to heal the earth and my inner soul.

The light surrounds me and envelopes my soul;
My soul becomes strengthened to reach out and touch.
My touch reaches from deep inside me and touches other souls; 
Those souls cover me with a warmth that satisfies my heart.

My heart sings with an exalted joy;
My joy touches all who enter my life.
My life fulfills the love of those who came before,
And so my ancestors fill me so I can fulfill my mission.

And so I can see the joy of life;
My life feels the warmth of contentment.
Contentment allows me to reach out to share my love;
My love allows the everlasting power of healing.

Healing brings me warmth;
Warmth covers me with satisfaction;
Satisfaction makes me know I am alive.
And so life goes on to heal,
And therefore it is!

© Hilda Ward, 2015

Orange Coneflower
photo by Tony Russell

Monday, May 4, 2015

Night-Walking (We Must Step Out the Door)

I have to walk alone tonight.
I have parked my car safely, legally,
and now, with fear as my escort,
I lean my soft body towards a far friendly door, 
not knowing what I’ll meet along the way.
I sense toothy wolves in the dark patches,
then try to shake away the feeling, 
though I know the wolves are real.
We have all encountered them.
I have been cornered by a few.
Though my past wolves were
never creeping out on warm nights,
their images come easily in the dark, 
and their teeth were sharp.

I pace pavement past private lots
and empty spots saved for souls with 
true bodily restrictions
even heavier than my fears. 
I have no such external restraints, 
instead am shackled from inside
by fears that lock me in, make me depend,
fears that stop my blood from running.

Where are safe paths for scared women? 
Where are the harbors that close
wild breathless gaps between carriage and hearth? 
We are afraid to walk out, some of us, 
who know that Red Riding Hood was ravished in the woods, 
then ravaged by the wolf with the big smile.

I wish for freedom. 
I wish for fiery bands of angels
to hover over me when I step out…
spirits of all Red Riding Hoods and grandmothers. 
I wish for a bright cloud of ghosts
of women who were shaken,
women who were taken.
a multitude of women-spirits once shrunken,
now grown vast and white-hot and loud like banshees, 
screaming earth-rot and vengeance onto men with trespassing
so that not one crooked impulse could cross the mind of a man
without humbling his blood in the terror of mortal 
Then we would be even, women and men. 

Sometimes I can feel the tower of guardians over me, 
pulling me past my fears, 
ferrying me through shadows, 
lighting my way from above, from behind, 
from time past, from inside.
But where are my bold angels on this dark night?
Why, when I need their voices, are they still silent?
Why, when I need light, do they hide their fire?
Where are safe paths for scared women? 
Where are safe paths for Sacred Woman?
To walk her healing through the world, 
She must first step out the door.

© Laura Seale, 2015

Little Red Riding Hood by Jessie Willcox Smith, 1911
from Wikimedia Commons

Tuesday, April 14, 2015


In my mirror,
house of sacred myths,
lives a warrior
whose wounds are mouths
reciting stories...

           rare mornings of peace
           when the breeze made marionettes
           of wind chimes
           as oaks stood guard,

           and evenings 
           when a shadow of fear
           or grief escaped
           from her nightmare
           and wrestled her
           until dawn chased it away.

Her final story
the wind will erase.
I will write
in black dust
from charred bone
how she climbed
the holy mountain alone,
its halo of mist
hiding her familiar home
in the Valley of Broken Wings.

© Jean Sampson, 2015

Misty mountains ~ Cochamo, Chile
Photo by McKay Savage
from Wikimedia Commons

Wednesday, April 8, 2015


Mom says she knows the shape of my skull.
She didn’t notice the dent in its back 
When I was a baby; it must be new. 

She memorized me,
Me, come from her.
Her threads bursting
At the coming of me,
Making room. 

She used to stare at the freckle on the back of my arm 
When she didn’t want to go. 
Tethered by love to my irregularity,
She knows how my heartbeat sings. 

The Father memorized His Son
In the beginning.
In the beginning was the Word, 
And the Word came and lived on soil
And died on a hill called The Skull and lives. 

I want His coming to burst from me,
My heart tethered to His Came and His Coming,
Let it ring from the bursting of me, 
Me closer to His heartbeat, 
Memorizer of His ineffability,

Herald of His
Child of His

© Emily Brown, 2015

Altarpiece by Thomas Gatzemeier
Onolzheim, 2002
from Wikimedia Commons

Monday, March 30, 2015

Please Go Away

I don’t like you…

stain in the rug
 squeak in the chair
 spider in the cupboard
 lump in the bed

 This isn’t your home…

 ache in my heart
 noise in my song
 anger in my day
 hole in my soul

 I’ll count to ten….

 Then please go away.

    © Bill Vollrath, 2015

Child counting to ten
Drawing from Wikimedia Commons

Sunday, March 22, 2015


You used to believe in me. 

There were moments 
When nothing mattered 
Except for the goodness you saw 
And in my potential 

You thought 
That your vision 
(the good things in me) 
Would hum under the weight 
Of heavy sands 
Of coarse papers 

You stripped away 
Parts of me. 
Cleaned off the broken fragments 
Of leaded, toxic paint 
Old and shredded greens 

An essence I hadn’t been forced to face 
Since I was made by the hand 
Of my creator 

It was too much 
For either of us to see 

So you put me away 
In the dark side of storage 
And forgot about me. 

Here and there 
Glimmers of what might 
Have been 
Would tumble through your waking dreams 
(…solid brass screws over a humming and honed pecan stain) 

But those too 
Were gone. 
And on 
You moved to the next thing. 

There were no more excuses 
No more places to hide 
Or reasons why 
It couldn’t be 

Dusted me off 
Placed in a sea 
Of light 
And mightily 
Worked again to smooth out the rough lumps 
The inconsistencies 
You once saw as “character” 

You made me hum 
Like the object you had envisioned 
When you first picked me up 
And bought me for less than I was asked for 

But it wasn’t enough 
And your work 
While visible 
Has left me as nothing more 
Than an object 
Sitting beneath the table 
Of imaginary maps 

Waiting to be used 
And to have my value seen 
Like you did before 

© Fergus W. Clare, 2014

    All Rights Reserved

Tutankhamun's Chair, Ancient Egypt, 13th C. BC
Photo by Jon Bodsworth
Wikimedia Commons from the Egypt Archive website
Cairo Museum