WANTING

Week before last, as I thought of the upcoming gala for the Walter Anderson Museum of Art, I contemplated doing a sculpture for the silent auction. They are always popular, especially those that suggest the artist himself…with his signature hat and some creature or bird as a symbol of his love for nature.

I was ill that week, trying to recover from a urinary tract infection that struck hard over the weekend. But I seemed to be recovering. I had to recover…with the paper doll exhibit coming up, not to mention a book signing at Barnes & Noble and the WAMA artist’s party itself at which donations would be accepted.

Yes, I contemplated a sculpture

with others in mind.

What would please was foremost

 as I placed my basket of wire

on the floor by my chair.

In my hands the wire writhed a bit

as I struggled to ignore gut-feelings

and keep to my plan.

The truth of the matter was this:

that my own deep wanting

was striving

to reach my hands,

while my mental and habitual tendencies

stubbornly carried on.

Instead of a woman

resting voluptuously in her naked solitude,

I brought forth my father:

the celebrated artist

whose fame had made him

so in demand.

Never mind that the living man

would have wanted his daughter

to be true to herself.

Above all,

to be true to herself…

The figure got done, and I leaned him against the black drape to take his picture. Otherwise, he remains unfinished. The Gala is over. And when I look at Walter now, I dream up ways to get him out of the box. Or is it the woman I want to get out of the box? Maybe both of us – Daddy and me – finally free of external agendas. I can easily see my daddy proudly walking right out of that box. And his daughter – the woman – the sculpture that I truly am wanting to make of myself… I see her reclining peacefully, smiling as the world rushes by.

I

FELLED BY THE STORM

The storm raged all the night long

as I slept a determined (if intermittent) sleep.

A light show

complete with rock band (heavy on the bass)

caused Music-dog to shiver with distress.

Next morning –

Just as the raging began to subside –

a low-flying Cuckoo flew

 into the shining reflective glass

of my studio window.

The sudden thud

of the bird’s soft body against the glass

roused instant regret

at the inviting nature of my windows,

and dread at what I would find

on the storm-battered boards of my deck.

How strange to find beauty and life

suspended so wondrously!

My heart had been lurching on the edge of grief,

but instead I retrieved my camera.

This was the moment

of the Cuckoo’s release.

INHALING BLUE

Blue is the color

of a Mississippi wildflower

that I need no name for,

and blue is the color

that my soul calls freedom.

This is mystery to me:

The sea of blue appearing

behind closed eyes.

This blue has come from somewhere.

Have I inhaled the sky?

Has it permeated long dark corridors

intent on liberating Leif?

Perhaps the breath of impatient angels

took advantage of my unguarded sleep

intent on freeing the sixty-eight-year-old child

whose longing to fly free is not dead yet.

In this moment

I shake off the doubts of an aging woman,

and vow to receive the gift that manifests

as the color blue.