Gourd Art
I have begun a new art project. I am painting gourds. I absolutely love it. The Loon is my favorite. Double click on Flkr
I have begun a new art project. I am painting gourds. I absolutely love it. The Loon is my favorite. Double click on Flkr
I dreamed a big black crow I had set upon a fencepost
And left while I went around the block.
When I returned, it was gone. Someone had taken my crow.
Crows in a dream often serve as messengers or indicators of imminent change,
something mystical, and ending to something one has been dragging around. It can represent fears and a sense of sadness and tediousness to come as one overcomes annoying habits and darker part of one’s character.
It proclaims a gathering. Often they will hold council and post a lookout.
Crow is a keeper of knowledge and survivors.
Out of the black of night a new day is birthed. It represents potential that is yet to come.
It often represents a journey, a shift, between known and unknown world. A journey between the conscious and the unconscious. A past-life experience will come to be known.
In Celtic mythology, the crow represents the flight between the twilight world of death and this life, a warning of betrayal and ill plotting by others. It represents a warning that one is in need of aid and council.
Wherever there is crow, there is magic, a blessing, and good luck under construction.
Being on a fencepost is important, to stand guard, meant to mark a territory.
What this dream means to me is as follows:
I out him on the fencepost as a guard, to be a sentinel for the new change I am going through. I am stepping into a new part of my journey as I work towards doing the sacred area in the back yard. That someone took him, means that there is magic in the air, tricksters, perhaps. I must not allow anything to stop my work on the gathering place.
I believe that I am about to move into the same work as I did in one of my past lives and that will be revealed to me as I complete the area for gatherings.
©Carol Desjarlais May 18.06
Flaws in the weft and weave.
Sky fibers woven into the green grass,
knotted winds tied on the branches
of limbless trees; stubby reminders
they have moved to the wildest dance
with a partner that took the hand proffered,
at what cost? At what cost?
Slipped strands of fields
folded in on themselves
with fencing, stitched scars,
holding the wild in, and taming
the need to dance across prairies
at will. Whose will?
Tongue of ponds, dammed duty
of beavers; spit held until tears
of bondage seep along the chiseled
frown of dry land even though
backhoes have dredged deep channels
to direct the flow to flayed fields
farmers have poked and pressed
into subordination? What fingertip
traced the map of these? Who plotted
these unnatural undulating ditches
on the face of an anxious earth?
Elements protest, furiously,
at this facelift with funnels
and floods and furious falls
as God sets his thumbnail
to scrape the ill-placed off his weave.
There is cost to this unsolicited
reshaping of a dear face
done in the image of God.
in the beginning was a blue thought
and there appeared ocean
made of a thousand, thousand, tears
of gods and goddesses and angels
in the beginning, he spilled earth
and traced a finger in the dirt
for trails of tears
in the beginning, he breathed
upon a split seed that would reach upwards
into the incomprehensible heaven’s
floodgate for a handhold
on the slippery edge of divine dam
in the beginning, the amniotic rocking
kept comfort and all was well
in the beginning
in the beginning, before the realization
that we would be god’s greatest grief.
It takes practice to age,
like folding fitted sheets
like tucking a child
into a snowsuit
a suggestion implanted
in our yawning youth,
a blind spirit, thought
to be later, much alter,
like the flattening
of cream on cappuccino
and the crusty froth
tracing a slow path
down the outside of the cup
it takes practice to deny
proposals of liposuction,
tummy tucks and strings
pulled up through the cheek
to be knotted at the temple
just above the hairline
it takes practice in this starry realm
where a crow at dusk
pulls the black night,
dreamily, over the blinking sun
shrouds of plastic wrap
and gauze of death
practically cinch the degree
of muscle and tissue
and the daily deal
I make with Father Time.