Sometimes you just find art. I walked into the kitchen and found this display of dishes in the drying rack. My daughter had done the dishes the night before. Her arrangement was different from the way I would have arranged the dishes to dry. There was something attractive about the soft light on the blue and translucent plastic; also about the way the objects in the rack seem to be at once floating and radiating outward. There is a dynamism that keeps the eye interested. The contrast of the red lid gives the eye a point of interest, while being the exception that emphasizes the blues and whites.
Yesterday my two daughters were at Starbuck’s. They saw a bicycle parked outside. In front of the bike was a sign:
HOMELESS. PLEASE HELP IN ANY WAY YOU CAN.
My younger daughter asked her sister for some money to buy a croissant. Then she asked the barista to borrow a Sharpie. She wrote “For you” on the fancy little bag that the croissant came in. Then she went outside and tucked the bag behind the sign. They sat and watched through the store window. When the man returned, he found the bag. They watched as he found the bag and its contents. He seemed amazed and really appreciative. Then he came into the Starbuck’s and looked around. Finally he sat down and ate his croissant. When she told me about it later, my daughter felt really happy.
It was a small act of kindness, but the kind that really makes someone’s day. We need more of these every day!
This is a sequel to “She Chooses Trust” (FromUnderThePages 4/9/2014) and “Open Your Eyes, Kitty!” (Writewireless 5/25/2014). A foray into magical realism and fun. Enjoy!
This is a sequel to “Open Your Eyes, Kitty!”, published on May 25, 2014 on Writewireless. It is basically a true story. Only the names and some of the details have been changed to protect the feral—and the domesticated as well.
When I heard the knock on my door, I thought it was someone else—wandering friends who show up occasionally. When I looked through the peep-hole, it could have been Jehovah’s Witnesses. Two ladies, casually dressed, on the other side of middle age. I opened the door. One had white, somewhat tousled hair, and was holding a long cage with a bowl of food at one end. Her face was soft and malleable and looked forgiving. Her companion was thin, with streaky gray hair pulled back into a severe ponytail.
Her voice was strident, and clung to the high registers like the nervous claws of an excited feline, ready…
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An artist is someone who:
Sees it all right away,
sees it in a different way,
pisses people off
doesn’t really care if people understand her or not
trusts her judgment
knows she is right
worries about what people think
wants to be liked
knows she will never be understood (in this life)
Must have chocolate every day
is obsessed with beauty
will hunt truth to the death
wants to live… really live
is interested in what other people think (and especially IF they think)
MUST see others’ art
loves the greats
needs to share
needs sunshine and plants
ponders stuff she doesn’t think is great—but not for too long
needs to be loved
can’t stand routine
is painfully sensitive
forgets what time it is
does it for love
obsesses over an idea
is anxious about the future of the world
is anxious about the present of the world
likes to challenge the status quo
pursues her vision to the end
often gets exhausted
must take pictures
gets high on new points of view
… has finally decided to go for it.
Ever evict dunes ultimately in stirrups? It’s a ziggy pornography.
A tailspin latte, Meg’s muzzle, silky sand, varying yoyos star, falling a jolt “s”–
Nose ram, Mega smeared, “Ohmigod!”
Two vices fold a glen as Elle snaps sugar a right toss a’ bun, Yes.
(If this poem seems a little strange, here’s a good reason: It was inspired by a poem in Hungarian. Out of desperation, I heeded a poetry prompt on Napowrimo.net: Take a poem in a foreign language and re-write in English the way you think the words should sound. And voilà.)
(Click below to read poem)
© 2014 Anne Campagnet-Reed
We don’t want to know;
bury our head in the sand
laced with strontium.
insects with two abdomens.
Denial of truth:
the worst form of tyranny;
To speak is to live.
The glorious clarion-call of spring
extends its voice to every thing:
to wild trees that dance and stomp,
their red tails sparking as they romp;
No less, to stolid evergreen
with bright-tipped fingers reaching keenly
outward toward the fiery glow
of brilliance every way bestowed—
on orange paintbrush, flares of red,
on hanging blushes overhead,
on dainty violet marguerites,
’mid celadon, succulent sweets,
’mong spid’ry pastel maidenhead,
within an ink-blue orchid bed;
Even the fungus no light blesses,
like folkloric Spanish dresses,
flounces subtle elegance,
while new-green leaves find fresh expanse;
Aground, e’en rocks have loving spots
of old-grown lichen, green-moss dots
that shine like polished medals, proud
to fete with the exub’rant crowd;
Let this young spring, so long awaited,
blossom as anticipated,
every squirrel and fish and bee,
donning his vernal finery,
set about the world’s renewing,
every moment busy, doing;
Let every living, growing thing,
reciprocate the call of spring!
© 2014 Anne Campagnet-Reed