Bitch Aloof

Allowed off-leash
More than she ought to be
Into the woods she wanders
Discovering new trails
Wagging her bushy tail.

Hikers crossing her path
Admire her independence
Inquire where her master might be.
Intoxicated by the myriad
Of unfamiliar scents they carry
(Wishing for a treat hidden in their backpacks)
She sniffs in all her glory,
Her warm, wet nose in the air
As they stroke her shiny hair
And remind her of her beauty
Clearly oblivious to the matted parts
Beneath the surface where she harbors
Fleas and ticks and prickly burrs.


Along the paths she bounds
With endless reckless abandon
Into familiar territory, then fearlessly
Branching out into newer tangents
Tackling the tangles of thorny briars
And unkempt paths
Seemingly undiscovered by others
Where wild flora flourishes
And she does too.


Splashing in streams,
Passing patches of warmth
Playful glare of gleaming sun,
She notes the locations of
Cool protective shelters
(Should she need one come dusk)
Refreshed and exhilarated
Stopping to pause
And lick her paws
And take in all her surroundings
As she pleases.


In the quiet moments
She hears the whisper of rumblings
Thinking it the hint of impending storms
Or quaking of the earth beneath
Her four feet
Or the approach of imminent danger;
Perking her ears, she listens attentively
And recognizes the language of her
Own hungry belly
And notices the fatigue
From her lively jaunt
Settle into her aging joints
Reminding her that her puppy days
Have been left behind
Despite this day
Where they briefly resurfaced.


Suddenly,
Coming to her senses,
She recalls her dish awaiting
Filled with tasty tidbits
Panic sets in when she realizes
She has lost her way
Markings on the trail fading
As last lights past sunset
Play with her vision
She squints
Looks around
Runs in circles briefly
Then charts a course
Managing to backtrack
Following her faint footprints
In evening dew-softened soil
And the familiar stench
Of pheromones
And waste
She left in her wake.

As chill of nightfall
Settles in her bones
She locates the gate
Left open
Anticipating her return.
Softly she enters
Careful not to awaken or stir
Those hoping for her arrival.
Gingerly,
She wipes the mud from the trail
Upon the Welcome mat.
SPOZ 5/16/16

Paying Attention

Eyes glazed
In a daze
She gazes
Outside the classroom window
Where she effortlessly translates
The language of blue jays who explain
The simple science of feathered flight
For her to comprehend
And explore.
Sporadically she drifts back inside
The cinder block prison
With cursive letters in alphabetical order
Making eager eye contact
With the warden
At the chalkboard
Feigning a cursory nod
With her most genuine masquerade
Confident
Of audience approval.
Pen in hand, she doodles maps
In the white spaces of her speckled
Composition book
That lead her to far away forests
Thick with fragrant earth and trees
Sailing ships afloat in mist
Of alluring distant seas
Where her tender heart yearns to be
Creating the illusion
Of copiously copying useless notes
The pointless facts she will memorize with ease
And faithfully regurgitate
Without ever having tasted
Their splendor first
Wearing the uniform of contentment
Like a grandiose costume on stage
Convincing viewers of her character
Suspending disbelief
Like the insect suddenly snatched
In the extravagantly spun web
Outside the window
Where she instantly
Recognizes her reflection.

By Susan Oscilowski
5/14/16

                                  Apparition

He reeks
Of age and stale booze;
She fights her gag reflex,
Appearing not to notice.

His face,
As rough as the glass-strewn sidewalk
Where he lays,
Scratches her delicate palm
As she strokes

Undaunted she remains

He sputters
Wracked with convulsions
She dares not wipe from her lovely face
The spit and sweat of his frenzy

His fingers
caked with grime
yellow-stained from borrowed cigarettes
cracked from cold and neglect
bowed; joints stiff and swollen
She caresses the stone-cold hands in hers.

His eyes bloodshot
and devoid of lustre
Fight hard
to focus on her gaze
The pity he sees there
Stirs in him
The hint of a smile

Before sleep captures him,
A fleeting memory flashes
of bedtime prayers recited
decades ago
A sparkle dances
In a tear he sheds

Wrapped in her embrace.

(Is it really 2 years since I added anything to this blog? I guess because all of my writing has been entered into my personal, hand-written journals where it happily co-exists with my art madness. OK. These are not new; however, they represent my passion for writing. --SuzyOzone)

Larval Compositions  

When you hear the distant song
Of naked cicadas composing
Beneath cold, dark rock of December,
Fly/flee at once to the refuge of your pen
Let their melodies echo in your ink
Warming the notes to a thaw.
Here upon the rough, lined bark
Your soul emerges, where
You, too, must discard your shell
And climb to chant a summer's eve
Across Eternity
            Beyond Mortality.

(SPOZ-12/2002-from the inside cover of a new journal)

Misplaced Muse

(The irony of this one's title is that I only found page One (of 2?) in my mammoth collection of saved papers; a date printed on the back is April 2007, but who knows if it has anything to do with when I printed the poem on the other side in my feeble attempt to save the Rainforest by conserving paper.)

I've misplaced my Muse once more.
Cleared clutter from my closets
De-junked demons and dumpster dives
Shredded reams of scribbled papers
---she never showed up.

I folded a heap of laundry
As deep as a sigh
But she didn't dance from inside the basket
Of forlorn, un-mated socks.

The sink, piled to the window ledge
With dirty dinner dishes
Didn't disclose the muse
Under the muck covering the counter top.

As I bleached the basin to beaming,
And moisturized my hands,
I wondered why no rhymes had come;
No imagery; neither metaphor or similie;
Not a peep of onomatopoeia, or even
A little alliteration.

In the grumbling hum of the garbage disposal,
I thought I heard her groan to me
Perhaps she's sliding through sewers,
Searching through slimy sludge,
Seeking a spark of inspiration
To share with me.

Maybe not.

The last time I remember playing with her
(and I SHOULD have put her back where she belongs)
I cannot recall--
Was I stewing in a seething saucepan of solitude,
Icy in my isolation,
Frozen in fear?

(To be continued if I can find the next page of this poem; but not right now; I have chores to do first!)
SPOZ

Indian Summer Again

 

        Indian Summer Again
                  I
My favorite month of jeweled hue
Crept unnoticed in solemn debut
But homesick summer  meandered by
Visiting long after we said goodbye
Flirting with a show of lush memories
Teasing and soothing with caressing breeze
I couldn't explain the lump in my throat
Resisting some tears as I rigged my boat
The blue and white sail blended with sky
I studied the clouds and let out a sigh
Carillon bells sang a vespers prayer
Notes like golden leaves danced through the air
Sun set too soon past equinox's theft
Trickles of purple faded, then left
Squinting in twilight, approaching land
The vessel now quietly resting in sand
Headed home grateful for time on the lake
Celebrating the last trip this season I'd make
Trying to savor this most splendid day
Wishing October would not fade to grey

           II
Ignoring remaining chores on my list
I dashed out the door; I couldn't resist
The Indian Summer, so tempting and sweet
Invited me to an exclusive retreat
Of sailing at Gifford Pinchot State Park
With just a few hours until it got dark
The surface of lake near-perfectly still
Save for the leaping of bass; yet the thrill
Of setting my sail and tacking away
Knowing how much I needed to play
Glad for the solitude but wishing as well
For someone to share this passionate spell.

Mermaid & Bluebird

Spending a weekend in Newburyport, MA always stirs my love of all things nautical. My college roommates & I toured the Lowell Boat Shop in Amesbury and took a boat ride along the Merrimac River. That was all I needed.
Trips to the many shops in town also sparked my creativity, and since I had my usual art gear with me (as always), a project had to happen.
The local Starbucks there had an art wall with a mermaid theme, thus my inspiration.
Maybe I'll share more pictures and story of her creation later, but it's a gorgeous October day, and I have yard work awaiting.      
She's a work in progress, and the mixed media is on a roughly constructed substrate of ticking fabric- covered cardboard. The background colors were dyed paper towels I had in my emergency art first aid kit. The netting used for her body and the sea were colored burlap-type ribbon I bought in a thrift store. The sequins came from my home stash and had been used to make a dance costume shirt.
Here she is:

1st draft

  I added a pencil drawing of a bluebird made before the mermaid .

with added bling

Bluebird--Prismacolor pencils

Mural Update

   We are making progress...a few more artists have joined the fun, and I'm about ready to step away from the ever-changing landscape. Sorry, but there will be no metaphorical tangents at this point about the ever-changing landscape of my life. Maybe in another blog; later. John Paul & Maria joined Teresa and me to see how they could contribute to the project, and in the hours we worked yesterday, the difference was obvious on the canvas:

   In spite of the challenges of artistic collaboration, the trio worked well, respecting the opinions and suggestions of Teresa who had already spent much time laboring on making the stones three-dimensional.

   At the conclusion of the session, the artists were pleased with the results.

******************************************************





   A major flaw in the canvas has driven me to distraction. The three flats are joined after they were connected/secured to the viewing area. A fabric tape of some sort joins the pieces in the front while the framing pieces are linked with screwed-in blocks of wood or metal strips. One of these--after years of use and abuse--is warped, so a large gap had created a vertical strip which cannot be obscured. Whatever we try to paint on it still betrays the imperfect substrate. From a distance, the view is painful for those of us who obsess about such things.
  
   My remedy for this took at least an hour of my time when I returned today alone. First, I drilled holes into more metal connectors and scrap wood to pull the warped board in line with its neighbor. Then, I experimented with Plaster of Paris to fill in the gap on the front surface--over the area already painted. I covered about 80% of the offending opening, creating a stark white strip over the masterpiece.  In my experiment, I learned how quickly the powdered plaster sets when added to water and stirred. It took about three minutes before the mixture hardened to stone, requiring I make many small batches until I finished.

   Ouch! The worse part was that the strip ran right through the beautiful masonry the kids had labored to create. Guilt swamped my being. I attempted to paint over the drying plaster, but the instructions said to wait 24 hours before painting, and I didn't want it to be seen by anyone who happened to walk in on it. An hour later, I stripped it bare, and swept the white mess from the floor. I went behind the canvas and filled in the gap between the wooden vertical braces, stuffing it with a strip of black foam insulation with adhesive backing. The re-paint afterwards hid more of the seam as I blended it into the scenery.

    The trunk of the tree to the right of center follows the track of the former gully. The image is blurry, but it's difficult to detect the flaw in the backdrop.

   



When viewed through French doors leading out the the balcony, the landscape is not overpowering, but lends itself to the air of elegance I was attempting to re-create.

       
   A small stream has been added to the left side of the scene, and a barely noticeable line of trees on the horizon line.



   I may put in a few more highlights tomorrow (and take a better camera)--then I will walk away and declare it finished. I am quite confident I would make changes to it on a daily basis if it were here in my home studio, but since it is not, and because it was commissioned---so technically I cannot claim ownership, I will abandon it to its new home, allowing the imperfections to remain. The artistic process matters more than the (un)finished product, and I feel so fortunate to have been able to create a landscape that I'd surely enjoy if it was outside of my veranda.