Paint the world beautiful today
Let your heart spill onto the canvas of your dreams
Swirls of color, twining to depict the joy
The brush your tool to start anew
Paint the world beautiful today
You are the artist of your own destiny.
Paint the world beautiful today
Let your heart spill onto the canvas of your dreams
Swirls of color, twining to depict the joy
The brush your tool to start anew
Paint the world beautiful today
You are the artist of your own destiny.
Glory be to the sun of a new day, a fresh start through the obstacles that darkened our way.
Awake with your confidence.
Awake with your vim.
Fill your cup with fortitude to the brim.
Glory be to the sun that has called us this morn, a messenger proclaiming we are reborn.
I drink the edge of the sky
A tall, morning cool glass of ombré sunrise
I taste the fruit of a new day
Sweet, my cup full of pulp free potential
This is perpetual refreshment
For those who wake to take it
No meniscus to worry about
A travel mug of joy
We are celebrating the life & times of my father today. He passed on February 28, 2022. He loved Lake Superior. And, my oh my, did he love his people. This is what I wrote.
I mourn in the morning,
When no one can see.
The French press of my emotions,
Coursing through me.
My tears awake,
As the moon goes to sleep.
But when the sun says hello,
I cease to weep.
For the day returns in glory,
Calling me to live.
I tuck away day-sleeping sorrow,
For the joy I have yet to give.
I mourn in the morning,
When no one can see.
My now past yields to my present.
I am once again free.
Sometimes your life and art mesh. I’m in charge of the Treasure Island cast & crew after party this Sunday. My son was cast as Long John Silver. I have not had much time for other pursuits, but I realize that creating things for the party is art. Life & art can intersect in wonderful ways.
I’m pretty proud of the creation you see here.
The steady fall along my wall leads to the end of day.
Frigid flakes coagulated atop the fertile ground of Spring exhibit their intricate glory.
Inside, I make dinner. I’m safe. It’s warm.
Dusk brings warning of a night from which I must hide. Or must I?
The only light is the crisp white of the snow out my front door.
The steady hum of plows is a clockwork announcement of the burden of today.
Do I dream of the melt of it all?
Or do I let myself be numbed by the cold, hypnotic beauty of snow at dusk?
Instead I dream that I am a snow crystal floating in the air, landing with the other crystals on the blanket we make as we go.
Each week I must have an Artist’s Date with myself as part of the Artist’s Way journey. I wanted to go outside and find a story in pictures.
Fast forward. I’m in a hotel, and it is frigid outside. These are the photos that resulted. I find the ordinary to be extraordinary when seen through the right lens.
Poe drew in a deep breath as she sat up, the sound of silence tickling her ears. She scanned X deck, to which she was one of the assigned residents thanks to her exotic last name of Xanadu. The only problem was that she was the only one awake amongst the dozen or so patrons that had chosen last names beginning with X. New space, new names.
As she tried to stand, her legs gave way, and Poe fell to the hard deck, smarting her tailbone in the process. She wished she had paid better attention to the literature about the process of waking up. There was a step-by-step guide to moving again. As a Scrivener, she should have appreciated the words she had been provided to have a less stressful experience on the ship. Soon, it would be her turn to write the words required for others to survive and remember this journey.
She looked around for any indication of why she was the only one awake in at this time. As she tried to stand again, she felt a whoosh above her head, nearly blowing her chin length ginger curls straight.
Poe called out with a cracking voice, “Who’s there? Or should I say what?”
She looked across the deck to a blinking control panel and a perch with a dark presence. Poe blinked her eyes until wings came into focus.
“What are you? I demand to know what has happened here.” Poe was talking to a bird…a large, black one, with coal eyes now staring in her direction. The bird was not there when Poe boarded the Lunessa for the adventure of deep space travel. She could not afford the ship, so she agreed to be a Scrivener to cover the cost of her passage.
The bird, with an agitated flap of its giant wings, swooped towards Poe, dropping a silver brick in front of her that popped open to produce another perch towering over her seat on the floor.
“Hello, Ms. Xanadu. I am glad to see you are awake. I am your Raven guide.”
Poe looked up, biting her bottom lip for a moment. “My Raven? What are you going to do about my predicament of being awake? I suppose you can call me Poe, too. Ms. Xanadu seems a little formal at this point.” Poe noted the Raven had a male accent, British in origin. She had watched movies based on Jane Austen books from the planet of Earth II.
The Raven cawed, a noise that shattered Poe’s confidence in questioning it. “Absolutely nothing. I woke you. It is time to get to work, pay off that passage you so desperately wanted, my dear. Call me Mr. Darcy. I prefer my formal name when you are addressing me, Ms. Xanadu, since we are merely at the acquaintance stage of our relationship.”
Poe rolled her eyes, studying the Raven’s wings, finally seeing evidence of robotic origins under the realistically plumed bird.
“Mr. Darcy, if you could so kindly tell me about the work required of me, then maybe we can proceed to the less formal friendship stage.”
“I am afraid I cannot do that. It must remain a mystery.”
“That’s ridiculous.” Poe was done sitting. She willed her legs to stand so she could look this daft bird in the eyes. When she stood fully, locking her legs and ignoring the swirl of her head, she was still slightly shorter than the impromptu perch.
“A mystery you say? Is there somebody that can help me solve this mystery then, bird brain?”
“Ms. Xanadu, that is a touch rude, don’t you think? You must not fan the flames of discord upon first meeting with someone, after all.”
“I hate to break it to you, but you are a robotic bird, remarkably realistic, but not to the point where I would worry about causing offense. I just want to know why I am awake and how I can get back to sleep.”
“I will ignore your slight. You have been asleep for two years. Perhaps your manners are still asleep. If you follow me, I will set you on the path to solving this mystery. Please grab your writing instruments of choice for you shall document the solving of this mystery.”
Poe grabbed her mental typewriter from the internal pocket of her still open sleep pod and placed little white discs in her ears and a tiny white patch on each temple. Mr. Darcy yawned causing Poe to smirk. While she didn’t want to obey Mr. Darcy, she needed to play along to understand her current troubles.
The glass doors of X deck opened as Mr. Darcy flew and Poe followed. They stepped out onto the circular walkway that was alphabetically the 24th circle up from the ground level of the ship. Poe stepped to the edge of X and looked down into the vastness of the ship, noting there were others roaming on circles below her. She then looked up and saw a man leaning over Y deck waving down to her.
Poe let out a sigh and looked at Mr. Darcy who was now floating at the center of the circle slightly below her eye level, not even bothering to flap his wings like a real bird.
Poe had to shout slightly over ambient engine and control noise. “Now what?”
“There is no need to shout at me, Ms. Xanadu. It is quite simple. You solve and document the mystery of why you are awake along with these other passengers. If you are successful, as judged by me in two days’ time, then you all can go safely back to sleep. If not, you will all meet eternal sleep, but we will still have your story to read either way.”
“I did not agree to this.”
“Most unfortunate that you did not read the fine print.”
Poe ran and jumped into the circular void, pulling off one of Mr. Darcy’s wings on her way down.
I am getting ready to participate in National Novel Writing Month, but I took a break to bake these beauties. Recipe to come!
Writer focused on fiction for middle-aged women with spunk
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