Tomorrow Never Knows

A flash of the future
A dash of a dream
Distant reflections
Of life still unseen.

A vague premonition

That gathers momentum
And quickens the soul
To excel with elation

Or darkens our dreams

With nightmares instead.

With hope on the horizon

Of an indistinct prospect
We wander in circles
To begin at the end.

Yet tomorrow never knows

What may lie ahead.

About 'Blue Monday'

Blue Monday is a piece I completed last winter. It is the first canvas I ever stretched on my own and measures 16" x 20". The background is done in a pale blue acrylic then lightly covered with light blue pencil. The design is constucted of cut paper, and then highlighted with gold acrylic pen. Once sealed, I applied beads to further enhance the design.

I am quite proud of this piece and I have four more canvases waiting for new designs. I hope that they come out as well as I think that this one did.

Thanks for checking in! - Yvonne

Taking Some Time to Write and Share

As I planned, I am very busy this weekend, but I had to sit down and take some time to write. Not to write anything important, rather to keep anyone reading my blog up to date as to my activities. This might not interest everyone, however, I am very pleased with the tasks I have completed thus far – so here goes.

Yesterday I moved my desk from upstairs to downstairs. My desk is a beat up piece of furniture (see photo below), and is quite small. Yet this is a good thing as I am unable to clutter it up too much. It has enough space on top to fit both of my computers giving me access to two screens at once. It also has seven roomy drawers to store the things I use the most and that adds to keeping my things organized. As I said, it is not in the best shape. I rescued it from a friend’s trash pile and plan to eventually sand it down and refinish it.

I also started to rearrange my book shelves, but had to break from that as books are a distraction and I need to complete the reorganization of my kitchen cupboards first or I will never get to them. However, I did want to share this beautiful bookshelf with you (again see photos below). It is another piece that was rescued from someone’s junk pile - although my father did the rescuing this time. This bookcase is over 100 years old and is made of oak. The craftsmanship of this piece is astounding, as you can see from the decorative carvings in the back of the top shelf. I believe that this was once used as a kitchen cupboard as it had brackets that would hold a rod for light weight curtains just below the top shelf. The shelves are adjustable but are not held up with pegs as our modern book shelves are made. Along the inside of the case are scalloped slots that hold pieces of wood that fit perfectly into the slots, and then the shelf is place atop these wood pieces.

As you can probably tell, I love old furniture. In fact I rarely buy anything new. Later this week I plan to write a blog about my art in refurbishing tables and chairs. I hope you enjoyed this little break and that you return for more of my babble.

Wishing everyone a Happy Sunday, and thank you for reading. - Yvonne

And Finally Friday...

Friday has finally arrived, and I am headed out my front door and into the world. I am excited as each time I head out with no particular destination in mind I find something new.

I don’t have any real plan but I expect to stop a couple of flea markets in town—one of which I’ve never explored.  I suspect there are some garage/yard sales in the neighborhood, as well.  It is the garage sales, the rummage sales, the flea markets, and the used goods stores that I love the most. Not only do I have an attraction to other people’s junk, I always find some old piece of furniture on its last leg that I can refurbish and give new life. Currently, I am specifically looking for wood picture frames that I can paint and fill with the quilt patterns for the “Ode to the Quilt” series I am working on. I still have five large frames and at least ten small frames to fill, but I have more ideas sprouting in my head daily.

I am sure to pay a visit to the library today. This is always my last stop of the day as I tend to lose track of time when there. I would like to get some audio books and maybe a couple of movies for next week. I read books in audio format quite often lately as when I am working on a project piece I can read all day while I create. However, I cannot read while writing, and lately writing takes up at least half of my day. As far as actual reading, I take time every day to read my emails and attempt to keep up with other’s blogs I am following. Except today, I will spend outside the world of technology and keep focused on the physical world.

This weekend will not find me immersed in art projects or writing either. I plan to clean out all of the kitchen cupboards, and when that task is done, I will organize my work and writing space. These are tasks that weigh on my brain during my work week, and sometimes interrupt my sleep. The weight will lift once they are complete, and I have no doubt that the cupboard cleaning will produce a box or two of items that I no longer use that will go to the Goodwill. So, not only will my conscience be lighter, so will my cupboards. 

Then, Monday will arrive—the day that usually finds me unfocused. Yet, I think after this short hiatus from writing I will find that I will have much to say to the blank page, because like an old friend, the blank page and I always have much to discuss…

Snow White’s Revenge

This is a cynical, silly poem. It is a morbid twist on an old tale. Hope you enjoy it...


Snow White's Revenge

She scrubs and cleans, makes seven beds.

Her hands are cracked and turning red,
As  ruby as her lips.
Her once white dress, black with stains
Moves to match her long dark mane
That’s snarled, its ends all split.

These seven men are too much work

Each contains his own sole quirk,
They’re all different, yet all the same.
And not one of them knows enough
To fill the empty tinder box,
Or pick up his own tiny socks;
She’s grown weary of this game.

The bright red fruit arrives one day

From whom it comes, it doesn’t say.
It smells so good, she’s about to bite
When a bird sings out his song mid-flight,
“Don’t eat that thing, for you see
It’s fallen from a poison tree,
Within it something’s wrong.”

She contemplates the murderous sin,

Decides to do it with a grin.
She cuts the thing up evenly,
Slow bakes it in a pastry.
The seven men come home to eat
And smell the fragrance wafting sweet.
They shun their steak, eat the pie instead,
Then one by one, they each drop dead.

Of her deed, no one knows,
She digs their graves with their tiny hoes
To bury them in the caves of ore,
A slave to them she will be no more.

Angel of Destiny

The moon was big and bright
That first night you came to me.
At first you gave me such a fright
My first instinct was to flee.

You talked in riddles, nothing clear.

I thought you were insane.
Though only words I felt vague fear,
And you did not give your name.

I wanted to listen to my inner voice

That told me, “Get out of there”.
But destiny stopped me from that choice
To leave would mean despair.

My heart so fast began to beat

As your words sparked sense anew,
Old duties that I dare not cheat
To all others I must be true.

Then you gave me something solid

A symbol shining in my dream
Amongst other visions horrid
This could only reign supreme.

So many questions filled my mind

The answers I needed to know.
But you had left me far behind
And I had not heard you go.

I was not really hurt or angry

Being farther than when I began.
You must have been an angel of destiny
And I am sure we will meet again.

               

Number Four for the "Ode to the Quilt' Series

I completed this piece this past weekend. That is a total of four done. I am now working on number five.

On Learning to Read

Of everything I have learned in my life, I consider reading the most important skill I have ever acquired. My first introduction to, and my continued love of reading, I contribute to my parents.  From my earliest memories I remember my parents reading to me. As you will discover from reading this blog, my parents did not read in the same manner as most parents read to their children.  However, it should be noted that I was always supplied with my own the print version of every book that my parents read to me.

My mother, who lost her vision in an accident at age six, would put in her order to the state library to borrow children’s books transcribed from print to Braille. These books were very large measuring 1 foot wide by 1 foot long and were anywhere from 2-3 inches thick. Braille is produced on thick paper and words produced in Braille take up 3-4 times as much space as a printed word. Also, many of these books contained palpable pictures made of cut cloth, felt, sticks, bits of wood, furry fabrics and other various materials so that the blind child could feel the pictures described in the corresponding story - hence the book’s size. I remember sitting on the sofa next to my mother with half of the open book across my lap and watch my mother’s fingers flit rapidly across the raised dots on the page as she read the story to me. When a picture was added to the story, I would draw my mother’s attention to it and have her touch it as I described for her in detail what the picture portrayed. Sometimes, I would close my eyes and touch the picture with my own fingers to see if I could discern it by touching it without looking at it with my eyes. I would also run my fingers over the small raised bumps of Braille, but I could not read the words that were written there. I must admit that I did not at first find my print books quite as interesting as the Braille books until later when I discovered the meaning print of letters. 

My father, who was born legally blind, (meaning that he was unable to see clearly the top letter, number, or shape at the top of the eye chart from 20 feet away), also shared stories with me. Although my father could read Braille, he preferred to listen to stories read aloud on Talking Books. These recorded books were also borrowed from the state library, and when I was a child they were recorded on records. My father’s stories were very different than the stories my mother read to me. While my mother read the classic fairy tales and nursery rhymes, my father shared with me the high adventure stories and literature. I remember sitting with my father and listening to the record player reading stories by such authors as Jules Verne’s “20,000 Leagues Under the Sea”  C. S. Lewis’s “The Chronicles of Narnia” and Lewis Carroll’s “Alice in Wonderland”, just to name a few. After listening to a chapter or two, my father would discuss the story with me thus far. He would ask questions, I later realized, to make sure that I understood the story, and explain things that I didn’t understand. My mother often told him that I was too young to understand all these things. And while I didn’t always understand everything about each story at that time, the explanations he gave came back to me later when I was older and reading these books on my own.  As with the stories my mother read to me, I was also given my own copy of these books, but unlike the fairy tale and nursery rhyme books these books did not contain as many illustrations. As I sat listening to these stories, I would open my own book and run my finger beneath each printed word. I knew there was meaning to these marks ordered in lines on the paper, but again, I still couldn’t put it all together.

When I reached the age of four, my parents enrolled me into nursery school. It was here that I learned about letters, and that when certain letters were placed together in a particular order, they formed words. I was not taught to read words in nursery school, other than my name and to write it, however the idea of figuring out this puzzle fascinated me. I began to pay more attention to the printed words in my books, and it was while listening to “Alice in Wonderland”  that I first began to recognize small and repetitive words such as ‘and’, ‘the’, ‘if’, ‘of’, and so on. I remember the feeling when I discovered that I was beginning to solve this reading mystery – it was overwhelming, as if a whole new door of my brain opened and everyday things became all bright and shiny and new. It was like Dorothy opening the door to her house after she landed in the land of OZ. I began to copy the words I recognized on paper, and then I copied larger words I did not know. I would spell out the larger words to my parents and ask them what words the letters spelled. I was obsessed with finding out as much as I could, and I could not wait until I could read books all by myself.

I don’t remember what book I read by myself, but I do remember the first book I bought with my own money.  It was during my last week of kindergarten and my school was holding a used book sale in the gymnasium. I was six-years-old and could read quite a bit by then. I had a dime in my pocket and entered the gymnasium thinking I would not find anything that I could afford. I was very wrong about that – the books were very cheap and as I walked the isles of books spread out on long tables I looked thinking that the book that was meant for me I would recognize as my own. I looked and looked and then I saw it. It was very old, its cover was grey and faded and the pictures and lettering were brown. But I did not care about the condition of the book for it was the title of the book that made it clear to me that it was mine. The book’s title was “Now We Are Six” by  A. A. Milne, and as I had just turned six a couple of months previous, I believed this book was sitting on that table waiting for me to purchase it. The price for this gem was five cents which was clearly handwritten on the books cover. Of course, I bought it, and it is still one of my prized possessions. The minute I arrived home I printed my name and the year I purchased it inside the front cover. Later, after learning to write long-hand I wrote my name and address inside the book.  (See photos below)

Over the summer months I read this, my very own book bought with my own money from cover to cover. Not only did this book introduce me to new words and interesting characters, it also introduced me to poetry, some of which I memorized and will still come to me in relative circumstances.  For instance, if I have a cold or a bad allergy attack the poem “Sneezles and Wheezles” pops into my head; or if I am craving time alone the poem “Solitude” comes to me out of nowhere.  Odd how the things you can read stay with you through the years. Or, maybe it’s not odd at all.

I’ve read many books through the years, too many to either count or remember. (I should have followed my father’s advice and kept a journal of every book that I read). My favorite genres are science fiction, fantasy, and horror, but I read other genres as well. Poetry is still close to my heart which is probably why I dabble at writing it. My parents taught me many things during the course of my life, however, I believe that the most important gift they gave me after life, was the gift of the love of reading.

 

Lost Soul

Lost soul,

invisibly bright,
falls into the sky.
The ground that slips
around his head,
runs cold to burn
as liquid glass.
Struggling,
drowning
in dark white clouds,
he loosely grasps
to clutch thin air.

Words fall silent

on open lines.
He opens his mind
to close his thoughts.
He is distraught
with shattered reason.
His compass spins
to find control,
But does not reveal,
A single direction.

He faces the future

of his past,
and finds more questions
in the answers.
He seeks outside
for his inner truth;
believing honest lies
from familiar strangers.

As he fights to fill

his soul's gaping hole
by denying need
and shunning desire,
he digs himself deeper
into a desolate pit,
that escalates
to adhere
to his external life.

Yet those who knew him

and know him still,
push to drag him
from his sheltered void.
And with their words
that go unspoken
they drain the poison
of his silent vigil.

Then finally,

without expectation,
all that is present
clearly vanishes;
and finding everything
in the expanse of nothing
he slowly emerges
to become himself.

Some Digital Doodles

These are a few of my digital doodles from the "My Weird Art" album. 

The Brain in Multi-task.

Purple Mountains

Faces in the Crowd

Feathers

City Streets

Noticing My Absence

The door slams; I’m alone again

But this time it’s for good,
I feel relieved yet darkness peeks
And I wonder if I should
Knowing full well what I seek,
Knowing that I never could.

Because for so long...

I existed only within your existence

While you ignored my presence,
I became a ghost of my subsistence,
Never noticing my absence.

It’s 3am, the night’s rolled in

I lay covered in its shroud.
I close my eyes, but still sleep evades
As memories scream silent, yet aloud
Of how our tangled life’s charade
Had deceived the surrounding crowd.

Strange they didn’t notice...

I existed only within your existence

That you ignored my presence,
I became a ghost of my subsistence.
And they never missed my absence.

The dark nights pass, into days, then weeks,

Exceeding years that interweave
I turn around twice and realize
How with the heart the mind deceives
To warranting wanton fears
Into twisted beds of lies.

And now...

I exist only within my own existence

While I revel in your absence
And my ghost consents with no resistance
To the veracity of my essence.

The door opens wide, I’m myself again

And this time—it’s for good.

Slaying the Dragons

Rise above your past,
Give it up, let it go;
It's time to slay those dragons.

There is nothing wrong with you.

You are an artist, a musician, a writer.
Stand proud with these God-given gifts.
Embrace those people He has put on your path
As family who love you, and care without conditions.

Stop trying to squeeze into society's square boxes.

You will only burst through their barriers;
For they cannot constrain your truth.
Drop the facade of the person you pretend to be,
And be the person we both know you are.

Reinforce your armor with these words.

With a battle cry, unsheathe your sword;
It's time to slay those dragons.

Drowning in a Dream

Drowning in a dream of you
Turns obsession once oblique,
Into fixation with addictive hues
As delusion devolves to exist unique.

Your scent vapors through the mist of visions
Invading the sanctuary of sleep,
Consuming the air with discreet precision
While descending in waves to depths too deep.

Enclosed in a bath of balmy warmth,

Your body a breath of haze unseen
Whispers through clouds secure from harm
And promises bliss of perfection serene.

Drowning in a dream of you

Reality falters to apparition.
Drowning in a dream of you
Breaks the bonds of separation.

Position

Standing in the flow of life I seem indifferent, yet I’m aware
Of all that passes by me; I breathe tranquil without err.

Many do not understand the serenity of my stillness.

Believing my inaction will never bring success.

But positioning and timing, these two things I know

Will alert me to the chances that travel within the flow.

I am prepared on approach to grasp with deliberation,

All opportunities evade escape; I have no hesitation.

But my patience brings repayment for prospect changes life.

And for those I know or know not yet help to ease each other’s strife.

Then once again, I take position; I am vigilant, prepared, aware,

Able to seize the next occasion, to use it, and to share.

Always...

For a time, you'll be on your own
But there is nothing for you to fear,
You are never completely alone;
You need only call my name
For I am always here.

In the dark of night,

When your demons try to roam,
And you need to see a light;
You need only call my name
For I am always there.

When the road before you stretches far,

To make your dreams seem out of reach;
It does not matter where you are,
You need only call my name
For I am always everywhere.

Excessively Early

I awoke this morning excessively early
And I think that now, I should go back to sleep.
I cannot tell if I am tired or hungry
But my bed seems to call me, with the sheets in a heap.
My eyelids are heavy as I sit on the shore
And my coffee feels thick and sweet in my mouth.
And the gulls seem to screech, “We think you need more!”
That’s enough for me. I’m going back to the house.
I will climb the stairs and crawl back into bed,
And snuggle beneath covers, as quiet as a mouse.
I’m falling asleep—okay enough said!

I Know Who You Are

I know who you are.
From your simplest thought,
To your most complex idea,
I see your dreams struggle
Against the events of your past.
And though you keep secrets
Those wounds still bleed through
And the stains darken your truth.
But you don’t understand
That you have to move on
Because that nightmare is over
It has become nothing more
Than a hazy mist.
And it cannot define you,
It is not who you are.

I know who you are.

I watch you as you turn your back,
I watch you try to disengage.
You take off at a run,
Then slow to a stride.
But you never seem to walk away.
You admonish yourself to conform
Your dreams to other’s desires.
But you must stand strong,
You must learn to let go,
In order to be simply
All that you are.

I know who you are.

I can feel your power.
You know that you
Hold the key to succeed.
Yet you fear what you may lose
When your dreams become real.
For the disparager’s words
Ring shrill in your ears.
Yet those who would judge you,
And discourage your truth,
They don’t really know you;
They have never believed.
They never will know
Who you really are.

The universe hovers,

It can see your light.
It moves to draw you out
Of the corner you’ve made
To start the square box
Where you think you should be.
But in your presence
The darkness cowers
To become grey shadows.
Your truth shines too bright.
You cannot hide
For even the Universe
Knows who you are.

So when the sunrise sets

Move out of the shadows,
And walk the curve
Along the new horizon.
Let the circle take you,
Release all control.
And when the circle spirals
You will want to let go,
But don’t, just hold on.
Let faith set your path
Faith will lead to your destiny.
And always remember
I am standing beside you.
For I have always known who you are.

Choices

One person can only tell another what they know to be true,
But no one can tell another how to think,
Nor can one tell another what to do with their lives.
Our life choices must come from within ourselves,
And our choices must always be our own.
We must stand our ground freely
And never backed against another’s wall.

If we define ourselves by other’s expectations,
If we define our dreams by other’s goals,
Then we lose ourselves to become hollow shells,
And our life’s journey will never be our own.
We must be true to ourselves,
We must always be who we are,
And let no one ever define us.

I Am a Creator, A Creator is Who I Am

Yesterday I did nothing but work on an art project. I did not look at the clock, answer or return phone calls, or think about anyone or anything except the art. I was completely immersed in myself and what I was creating. Neither the world beyond the art nor the time that past while creating meant anything. At the present moment, as I am writing this blog, I am creating once again.

These are the times when I am happiest, when I am creating, be it art or poetry or writing or photography or cooking or gardening... The list goes on. I do not care whether anyone else appreciates or likes the things I create. I do not care whether anyone appreciates or likes me. I like me. I like what I create.  I am not looking for another's approval. The only approval I need comes from within me.

When someone sees my art work or reads my poetry, the most common question they ask is, "But what are you going to do with it?" I am confused by this question. Why do I have to do anything with it? I came to realize that many of those who ask this question feel that if you are not creating to make money from the creation, then the time spent creating is time wasted. I cannot seem to wrap my head around that way of thinking. Don't get me wrong; if someone likes my work enough to offer me payment for it, I will gladly take it. Yet, while the money is good to have, I have to say that I am happier that the person paying me for it is getting some sort of satisfaction from my work rather than happy that I created something of monetary value. However, if no one likes my work or if no one ever sees my work, it doesn't matter to me. I really don't create anything for anyone but me.

I create because I need to create. Creating is a part of me. I am a creator, a creator is who I am.

Having Faith

Having Faith IS NOT to simply believe

Having Faith IS to know absolutely.

Without a hope, or a wish, or a want

To know everything you need,

Will come when you need it, and

Will be there within the right time.

Having Faith IS NOT greedy or boastful

Having Faith IS generous and kind.

Without seeking praise, or glory, or honor

To recognize the needs of others, and

To give freely of whatever is needed

Whether possessions, or labor, or time.

Having Faith IS NOT erratic or anxious

Having Faith IS patient and steadfast.

Without a rush, or a swerve, or a detour

To stay sturdy on treacherous ground

When the world crashes in from the outside

To know that guidance always comes from within.

Having Faith IS NOT pompous preaching

Having Faith IS an honest example

Without judgment, or insult, or ridicule

To accept other's beliefs without prejudice

And not compromise yours in the process

Standing firm in what is right and not wrong

Having Faith IS NOT organized religion...

Having Faith IS a Divine bond to the Soul.

Storm Fronts

Skipping smooth stones across conversation,

            Words ripple in rivers to a misread ocean.
White capped lies ride crashing waves,
           Tormenting still shores with foaming raves.
Seagulls screech songs with stabbing screams,
           Dusk draws dark with diminishing dreams.
Raindrops drip in diamond shaped tears,
           Breezes sigh deep on deaf turned ears.
Storms settle to showers, subduing at last,
           But the landscape will never resemble its past.