Wabbits

If I was to own a rabbit
(a situation that
were it to actually happen
would astonish both the animal in question
and
I'm sure
its owner)
I would never call it Fluffy or Sweetums
or any of those other cringeifying names
that
in their utter preciousness
would have any self-aware animal huddling in fear
of addled spinsters
in search of pseudochildren.

It's never helplessness
that makes the bunnies look scared
you know
it's the thought of hearing one more
simpering female
talk to them in pookywookywookies
and ask whether they wouldn't like
an itty bitty cawwot
for their wittle tumtums.

And really
can you blame them?

It's a lot for any being to bear without shudders
especially one tough enough to live
by coprophagy.

(bet you didn't know that one, Ms Snugglemuffin)

No, rabbits deserve better
and if I was to own one
it would be Thrasher
or Boris
or Rex
(complete with studded collar)

and if anyone dared speak to it
in misplaced
cutesy
babble
I would give it my complete permission
and blessing
to chew off every single one
of her daintily
manicured
fingers.

----------

Er... yeah. I don't do so well with cute.

Dying tulip in graphite

Complete with reflected flash and light fixture.

It's a really bad shot, isn't it?

Ah well... gives the idea.

The twisting of the petals as they aged was really kind of interesting to me. Line and shape yet again, yes. It's somewhat of an obsession.

Bet you hadn't noticed.

Dirt

There's dirt and then there's dirt,
she'd say when I'd complain about the jammed-in crusts
that threatened to wedge off my young fingernails.
Some dirt's just good for the soul
that's all.

And she'd show me how to tease apart the root balls
in those bedding flats that ruled the house for weeks
until the weather turned.
No two-buck packs with dainty partitions there --
in those days you saved your seed
recycled
built up your stock
shared it out
and grew again.

Now they'd call it Heritage
I suppose
and charge you more to prove it.
Then it was just what was done
and no one thought it at all
unusual.

Funny how a history
can be boiled down so
succinctly
All we were
and all we are
is seeds
sun
rain

and dirt

----------

My grandmother used to tell me that her mother would never go to museums because she didn't need to see "her" stuff under glass...

Marbled Orb Weaver in charcoal

And now for something completely different.

Well, a little different.

This illustration was for a spider display I created at work a few years ago. The original is in (cheap, pressed) charcoal, but the scan loses a bit of the texture.

The species drawings were supposed to be fairly basic, and the first few were... but as is often the case I got on a bit of a roll and the later spiders started looking a bit more realistic.

I like spiders for a lot of reasons (not the least of which is that they eat insects), and the reason I like them from a doodling point of view is that they are, at least in my eyes, functionally beautiful. Nothing is superfluous on your average spider; it's all there for a reason.

That's cool.

Nightschool

One night
on a bleached-out beach chair in the middle of suburbia
that person looked across the sky
blankly
searching for nothing
And the stars accepted those expectations
took that person out of her
though she didn't see the loss

There had been two, once
Blindly holding hands in the dark
because they were supposed to
Straining for order in the dusty heavens
He, good catholic boy sent into the wide world
terrified that god was dead
She, laughing
because she'd known for oh so long
that he'd never lived
anyway

I know so much less now

The night draws paper leaves across the still pond
and I pull my wrap closer
looking blankly at confetti skies
I had made sense of this once
just once
I know less now

and the stars accept this resignation
take me out of me
and the loss
lets me fly

----------

Remember being young, in love, and knowing everything? And then remember learning (however it came about for you) that you don't know everything after all?

There's freedom in accepting that you're not the ultimate power in the universe.

And what is? Well, everyone needs to decide that for themselves. Don't you think?

Squirrels

There was a dead squirrel in the rain barrel that day.
It wasn't the first,
although we'd tried every manner of lid and mesh to keep them out.
Maybe it came down the gutter, she said
as we fished the blasted thing out;
maybe, I said, but it's hard to believe
something built for climbing couldn't make it out
of that beat-up old pipe.

I don't know why they keep coming here to die,
she said as we dug a hole by the spruce tree.
All these would-be swimmers
not to mention
the one who knocked down the wood pile
the one who kept teasing the neighbour's dog
and the one who ran back and forth across the front street
for a while...
That's some bad squirrel mojo.

I suppose you're right, I said
as we buried it under a rock
to keep the cats from digging it up.

Poor stupid thing.

The next day there was a squirrel at the bird seed.
I guess it just goes to show
stomach wins out over karma every time

(for a while).

----------

I'm a little leery of saying too much about this poem. It's more carefully constructed than it might appear to be at first, and I hope there are a few more layers than might be initially obvious.

The repetition and parallel construction are entirely on purpose, by the way. As is the tone.

I do put a bit of thought into these things, surprisingly enough.

No, I haven't given up already

I see from the counter that there have been people checking in. You're probably really sick of seeing the same pathetic tulip doodle at the top of the page, I expect.

I was unavoidably away from the computer for a while, to be honest (thanks, Canadian Winter). I'll see if I can't get something new posted in the next day or so.

Ok then.