Edite Haberman

Inspiration piece

Barbara McLaren Bever

Response 

Unreined Ukraine

Horses once ran free
Between our rivers and the Caspians
Until we tamed them
Like we were later tamed
By Germans, Poles, and Russians
Corralled in a concrete Bloc.

Chomping at the bit
Verdant fields beneath our feet
Arms outstretched
hand-in-hand
Across the land
From L’viv to Kiev.

We stood for freedom
And dreams
That you may run unfettered
Toward the future.
Do not tarry at the starting gate
In your vibrant racing silks
Sweet filly
It is open.

Note: All of the art, writing, and music on this site belongs to the person who created it. Copying or republishing anything you see here without express and written permission from the author or artist is strictly prohibited.

Inspiration Piece:  Ode to Stone by Cecilia Reid Driscoll

Open your eyes.

Look closely.

Listen through my years.

I am the older brother,

the grandfather,

the man-in-the-moon.

I am the railroad track,

the sled runners,

the highway.

I am the sturdy base and walls,

keeping out intruders,

wild animals,

heat and cold.

I am the hearth,

the circle that holds the fire,

the circle around which you gather,

with marshmallows and stories.

You mine me for my best qualities,

refine me,

put me to work where I am needed.

Heat and pressure and time

often make me more beautiful,

stronger, more complex.

For the most part, I am quiet.

I am rarely perfect,

but crystal glories may hide inside me.

When I am older, broken, small,

children pick me up from streams,

find me in fields of green and gold.

Sometimes they tell me their dreams.

When those of short lives carve me,

or make their mark on me,

I am still who I am.

I am here to serve.

I am red, I am beige, I am black.  I am gold.

I can build or break down.

I am the source of mountains and mighty legends,

living giants, teachers, protectors of the North.

I am the path and the cave,

the foundation, the crust,

soft at the ultimate core.

I am the bridge and the wall.

I am here to serve.

Jennifer Brewer Stone

River

response piece

Susan Gordon

River

inspiration piece

River and Me: I

River, a seven year old Australian Shepherd has been the boss; he expects me to bend to his every whim, to know what he is thinking and do it.

One day we took a walk and he disappeared for three hours. I called, whistled, shouted while tramping hundreds of acres of woods and fields. I was about to go home, to make posters to hang all over Ijamsville, to call the Humane Society and then the dog psychic who had located Kevin Bowie’s Jack Russell for 500.00.

I cut through the woods, taking a new track towards my fields when I stumbled upon River sitting at the base of a tree. By the looks of it, he had been there for hours. Bark had been ripped from the tree. A hole was dug at its’ roots and there were scratches on the trunk where he had been jumping six feet in the air and then sliding down the tree. He had been that wild and determined, that crazy and squirrel-obsessed without ever making a sound.

He let out a single, sharp bark when I was a dozen feet away to let me know what he needed done. It was clear from the look on his expectant, prick-ear face that he had been waiting for me.

I don’t believe a person owns a dog, cat or bird but I do think there should be some mutual respect and consideration. River agrees. He considered it my job to climb that tree and get his grey squirrel.

River needed a tune-up on listening and coming skills with the man who helped him become a member of the three dog pack, following my daughter, Liz’s death. John Landry had been able to get River accepted by my golden, Ipse, and Revve, a black shepherd. John had them for three weeks and when he brought them back they swam together, ran together and played together.

I turned to John again. He took River in late February. Twelve days later he called to tell me, “River has another gear; he kicked the butt of six Marine recon dogs.” He said the Marines wanted to buy him, a neutered seven year old dog, for 3,500 dollars. John told them, “His Mom’s not selling.’”

John said, “Susan, you’ve got to be the Alpha in the pack; you’ve got to be unpredictable; you’ve got to be a mystery.”

“Jesus,” I thought, “I’m nearly sixty-three; I’m plodding; I’m slow; I operate on ritual; how do I get some respect?”

It turns out, I don’t.

The new electric collar does. One zap brings the River-dog in. I rarely have to resort to electricity; if I call, he comes. If he is too far a-field a beep reminds him, “Come or a shock might follow.”

I throw the Frisbee for River every morning before breakfast, every afternoon when I’m on a break from work and in the evening, two or three times between nine and midnight.

But now he comes back with the Frisbee. When he catches it mid-air, I’m jumping up and down and yelling, “Good job, River-bucket, great catch.”

River and me: a tri-colored Aussie with long legs, a powerful leap and stare- you-down-herding-dog-eyes and me, a 63 year old woman, 15 pounds overweight, with short grey hair and rimless glasses, leaping in the air, clapping and calling, “Great job, great job, River. Bring it in, all the way, all the way,” until he drops the slobbered and sometimes peed on Frisbee at my feet for me to throw again.

River and Me: II

River is Liz’s dog. He is Liz’s dog when she takes her last breath. Only River and, her Jack Russell, Cosmo, know when that was. They were there.

River is Liz’s dog. He loves Kerry; Liz’s best friend; he can feel Liz’s electricity running through her, somehow.

Kerry is a conduit to that “Liz place” that resides in River, still– three years and six months after her death.

River lives with me now. We are partners in crime. We are vacillating alpha dogs; we are changing leaders of the pack.

John Landry died. Just before Christmas. Kerry told me when I brought River and Revve into the vet’s to get their nails trimmed. She said that John had a heart attack separating two fighting dogs.

John was a big man, with one day’s stubble on his cheeks and chin, a close cropped head and dusky skin, dusky verging on gray. That might have been me or him. My eyes never saw very well when I was with John. It might have been that I first met him six days after Liz was found dead and that to see John was to see the world without Liz.

John hated the Iraq war but he loved the men and women who were serving. He cared about them when they showed up, injured at Walter Reed. He talked about taking his dogs in to see those vets, wounded, bed or wheel chair bound, and depressed.

I always depended on John Landry to keep River wild and obedient, listening and kicking Marine dogs’ ass. Now, John was gone and I couldn’t ask him for River adjustments, for yearly mystery.

That was my job now.

I knew I couldn’t do it on my own.

River is a dog who loves a challenge. Simple obedience is boring. What he really wants is a lively engagement of mind and body. When we take walks around Baker Park, he leaps onto the fieldstone walls and walks along top of them. He tries leaping on and off park benches as well.

“Hmm,” I thought, “agility” and I signed him up for an intro class. What is agility? It is a dog sport that rewards speed and precision as a dog runs through tunnels, trots through ladder rungs, bends his body back and forth through a line of poles, leaps jumps, runs up ramps and holds himself steady on boards that are actually a dog form of a teeter totter.

This, I thought, would be a mystery for River, a mystery to me because I would be bringing him into a world unknown to both of us.

Our teacher, Amy, a full-bodied girl with long hair and a star sapphire on one of her ring fingers She is an emergency technician with the fire department. Amy is laissez-faire and she doesn’t miss a trick when you are in her gaze.

The first night we sat in a circle without our dogs and she demonstrated with her nearly all black Aussie how to teach your dog to touch the palm of your hand with his nose. She said, “No voice, just the clicker and instant treats.” She recommended Zukes mini treats and handed each of us a clicker with the Breakaway Action Dogs logo on it. Mine was red and yellow. She taught us: Click and as soon as the dog looks, a treat. And then she taught us to reward the dog for even an accidental nose touch to the palm: click and treat.

I went home to teach River and he showed me a trick I had forgotten he ever knew. Every time I held out my palm, he raised his corresponding paw and reached it towards my hand. I lost my breath and nearly began to cry, but I didn’t because it would have been the wrong response. River was delighting in showing me a trick that he had had no occasion to use since Liz’s death. My hand gestures had brought forth a game he and Liz used to play, her palm, his high five.

River and Me: III

“Love. . . is a high inducement”

Rainer Maria Rilke

Letters to a Young Poet

“Love. . . is a high inducement for the individual to ripen, to become something in himself, to become world, to become world in himself for the sake of another person…”

sometimes for the sake of a dog, sometimes for the sake of a client, sometimes for the sake of the lost husband, sometimes for the sake of two daughters, one living, one dead and sometimes, for the dead daughter’s dog.

It comes round, doesn’t it?

For the sake of the dog means wondering why, now, he is licking the fur of the joint just above his paw?

It means taking him to agility.

It means losing 59 of my nearly 64 years as I rocket across the floor, mindless and full of joy, calling out: “River, River, River!!!” as he dashes to catch me and then I, to clasp, to clap and leap with him and then trot back to the starting line, out of breath.

River loves to skip along any plank; they are just an airier version of the stone walls in Baker Park. Change the height, change the pitch, for River, it still is “trot up, turn around, trot down.”

I try to teach him “paws” which is also “pause.” That means coming off any piece of equipment: tunnel, teeter-totter, plank and leaving his hind legs on the object and placing his front legs on the target. “Ok, too technical.” It is too technical for him, too. He thinks, “I’ve got it–trot, trot, trot and then (pause) a nice clean sit on the plank.” And like any parent, I think, “Maybe what he has figured out is cooler than what is desired.

It means noticing that he is still licking that fur above his paw.

It means wondering: “What is worrying him?

I remember that in the last weeks he has been particularly attuned to me.

Thursday I called a friend and told her, “I need to scream and I won’t allow myself to do it.”

I began to sob and River was right there.

His worried eyes say, “Its’ real; its’ real; I know when it is real. How can I help?

I thought I was carrying the dog by taking him to agility, by taking him to a place where he can run narrow planks, run through curving tunnels. But clearly we are carrying each other.

Amy, the agility instructor says, “Not so fast, Susan,” as River and I negotiate an ever tipping three foot by three foot yellow-painted piece of plywood that is balancing on a ball as River balances on the wood.

Amy says to me, “He’s doing, he’s doing—but he is leaping off like it’s a hot potato. Slow, slow,” she says, “Let him gain some confidence.”

And I slow; I try not to rush him.

He is bright, enthusiastic, full of joy himself and oh, so willing.

But, if I go too fast, he is like any child in school, rushing to keep up without understanding—really.

I thought of agility for him.

I chose it above yoga, above meditation.

I thought I chose it for the love and well-being of River but really it is for both of us

I do not have Liz. I can’t be her Mom anymore.

He does not have Liz. He cannot be her dog anymore.

We have each other; we are both becoming more agile—as parent, as dog

because “love is about becoming the world in {oneself} for the sake of the other.”*

Susan Gordon

February 16, 2011

*Rilke, “Letters for a Young Poet”

Russ McIntosh
Sisyphean Tableaux
Digital Composition
Response

Still Rockin’
By Dale Leffler
Inspiration piece

Alisa Bliss

Opposites Attract

Response

Chalk and Cheese

Val Bonney

Inspiration Piece

You dance to Julio Iglesias

and the light country notes

of John Denver; while I

get blue with Billie

and Amy Winehouse

and rock out to Nickelback.

You enjoy marzipan

(which I detest) and nibble

small, dainty portions; while I

get stuck in to chilli

(which you hate)

and prefer my plate well filled.

You choose soft, fairy fabrics

in pink and lilac

and baby blue; while I

wear leather and low-cut,

side-split satin

in devil red and black.

We celebrate the richness

our diversity

brings to the world –

and yet, thought different as

chalk and cheese,

our hearts are identical.

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Note: All of the art, writing, and music on this site belongs to the person who created it. Copying or republishing anything you see here without express and written permission from the author or artist is strictly prohibited.

Nancy Smith

Response Piece

Phyllis Weissman

Tapestries

By: Phyllis Weissman

Selena Santiago was academically gifted and creatively talented. From the young age of nine, Selena could look at a fashion magazine and reproduce the item that she liked on her mom’s sewing machine. At 16 Selena was given a full scholarship to the Florida Institute of Technology. Five years later she graduated with a Master’s degree and a thriving on-line business.

Selena had found her niche in the area of creating custom made tapestries. Her hand woven reversible wall hangs were so popular that Selena had formed a small online company: Tapestries that rapidly grew, flourished and made her a successful and well- known designer before she was 20. The intricacies of her colorfully designed patterns that told happy celebratory stories were her trademark.

Selena was now living and working in Miami. Her home and work place were in an old factory in a newly renovated area of Little Cuba. The factory had been remodeled by Selena and her parents and was the talk of the new area that boasted galleries, restaurants and businesses.

Selena was beautiful with her black curls, ebony hair and a curvy petite figure. She loved her new life and the pleasure that Tapestries brought to her customers. She enjoyed being near her parents and old brother. The only thing missing was a social life and a man she could love the way her mom Carmen loved her dad Ricardo.

A large section of Tapestries was a store on the first floor. The second floor was the factory itself with work stations and lavatories and a café for the workers. The third floor was her home. There were two in suite bedrooms, a small eat-in kitchen, a living and dining room, a workout area and Selena’s office.

No one ever came to her living quarters except her parents who had keys and so Selena was more than a little surprised when the doorbell chimed, The Rhythm is Going To Get You. Hurrying to the door in her workout clothes, Selena looked through the peephole and saw what she thought of as Adonis.  He was tall with deep blue eyes, blond hair curling at his shoulder, sporting a physique worth of a Greek god. He was carrying a huge bouquet of colorful carnations and he was smiling.

Selena opened the door and then it occurred to her that she hadn’t ordered flowers and didn’t know this man from Adam.

“Don’t be afraid, Carida. These are from a secret admirer who has worshiped you from afar for years. My name is Marcus Adonis and I own 12 of your tapestries.”

Selena remember his name just as Marcus pulled out his I.D. and stepped into her living quarters. Selena had an Aha moment when she realized that Marcus was talking about himself. He was her secret admirer.

“Please come in Marcus, the flowers are wonderful. Let me put them in water. Please sit and make yourself at home. I’ll be back in ten minutes.”

Ten minutes later Selena was showered and found Marcus in the kitchen making them lunch. He turned and smiled and what a wonderful smile it was.

“Please sit Carida. I came here today to introduce myself to you. I recently moved here from Los Angeles and had to meet you. I Googled you and know that there is no man in your life even though you’re somewhat of a celebrity. I want to be that man. I will woo you, court you and win your heart. What do you say?”

“I say this omelet is fabulous and I also say that you have an excellent chance of winning my heart.” Selena said with a laugh.

It took six months of constantly being together and falling hard. Marcus and Selena knew that they had found the one.

Tapestries had brought them together. Love would keep them that way…forever.

Russ McIntosh
desertLove
Digital composition
Inspiration piece

DesertLove
By Dale Leffler
Response

I find myself in the void

In the center of the darkest of places
Do I fight my way out or simply surrender?
Is it my view that I bring
or is it really that dark all around?
Just the questioning brings flickers of something.

I look to the ground, it seems bleakly baron
rocks, stones, pebbles, grains of silica
reflecting light at odd angles, tenderly translucent
in their refractions, shadowy images that make their way.
Faintly painted patterns too difficult to discern,
do they form a depiction of some kind?
Revealing clues to consciousness, something of meaning in time?

What would the mystery of this place be to me?
This vast expansive sandy plain
starkly empty, spaces that sparkle, laden with lines,
curving pathways and patterns so lovely,
inviting enough as if to say
please stay,
please stay with me.

Words By: Dale 02/25/11

______________________________________________

Russ McIntosh
Pandora
Digital Composition
Response

Greg Brown
Pandora, December.
Inspiration Piece

by Kelly Newton

Quitting

by Irene Plax

Response Piece

Possum spots the prize when she casts her beady eyes toward the ground.

Near her home in the forest, there is an entirely different home full of humans, which sits neatly on a square foundation. The presumptuous bounds of this structure cannot impose limitations on a shapeless cloud of scent. Possum knows to watch the trash. Their human family and her animal family glimpse each other with a mixture of curiosity and disgust. On occasion they see themselves in each other, carrying their young, carrying food to their hungry mouths.

Possum heads out, down the tree, making her way faster now.

She is running toward the trash. Her eyes had not deceived her; there are two or three entire fruit pieces.

She grabs the fruit. She rips into it, feasting until she is full. For a moment she is too full to move, but she begins to gather the fruit into her mouth, waddling.

But then there is a scuffle, and that noisy human father is in her space outside. Possum takes her fruit, squeezes behind a trash can and plays dead.

Brian had a long and terrible day. Glad to be home, the babies finally asleep after a fight, exhausted, he had made himself a much-deserved cup of tea. He reached up to the cabinet to get the sugar, and the box had tipped and spilled on top of him. It was in his hair, clothes, and even in his palms where he instinctively caught some. He could not win. He goes outside to shake himself off by the trash, and is feeling defeated when he smells dead animal.

“Shit”, he says, feeling the weight of another thing to take care of as he moves the trash can out of the way. He sees Possum, and next to her, the fruit.

He pauses to admire the technique.

“I see what you’re up to. Game over”.

He brushes the sugar from his skin but leaves it in his hair and goes inside. He lets the door slam and kicks off his shoes. He cruises past the mess in the kitchen and doesn’t bother checking on anyone else. Brian gets in his bed and shuts down. By the time he is in a REM cycle, Possum’s babies are dozing with bellies full of fruit.

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Note: All of the art, writing, and music on this site belongs to the person who created it. Copying or republishing anything you see here without express and written permission from the author or artist is strictly prohibited.

by Kelly Newton

Chopped

by Irene Plax

Inspiration Piece

Her heels clicked down the street, for once, the only sound.

She was carrying a rose, which she got for free at a French bistro called L’Express. A guy on the subway said, “Your boyfriend got you that rose?” and she said, ‘Yeah”.

The lie was dumb and weightless in her mouth, like a marshmallow.

She imagined herself a tree in a green forest. Inside, where chlorophyll moved through wick, there would be no need for lies, high heels, or subways.

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Note: All of the art, writing, and music on this site belongs to the person who created it. Copying or republishing anything you see here without express and written permission from the author or artist is strictly prohibited.