Isabella Bird Miscellany

It's the last day in October, Halloween. The slant of the afternoon sun is low. My backyard is filled with so much sun in the summer, but now it wears long shadows from the neighbor's trees. wind child, unseen, nevertheless felt no origin or home wind child comes and goes, disturbing all she blows through and past over and under, tossed and turned wind child blusters and plays a mirthful game of hide and seek The wind is loud in the pines and junipers; melodic in the aspen that still holds onto a few leaves. Curdled clouds are blowing in and my cup sits half full, milky and sweet. autumn:  a period of maturity verging on decline the free dictionary.com Most of the leaves have fallen and gathered themselves into messy piles around the yard; a last magnificent burnished hoorah before everything becomes shades of grey dusted in white. So, this afternoon I'll relish the faint warm rays as they touch my face, watch the shifting...

Ever feel like you're living in a roundabout? Where I live, we have several. They move traffic well, except when they don't. And of course, we all remember the scene from European Vacation where Chevy Chase keeps going round and round the Arc de Triomphe. There seemed to be no way out of the never-ending circle. i'm circular my weary mind a looping maze all the paths it wanders come back to the same spot i try to jump out of the hamster wheel as it spins faster, but the centrifugal force holds me, stuck Yeah, that's me. I'm circling around. Going through motions, held in place. Why can't I slow it down or make it stop? i'm circular revisiting habits and manners of being how do i shatter those patterns so ingrained rutted in the psyche pushing hard on the lines that inhibit and restrain one hand reaches through a thin place As hard as I try, we try, the same stuff keeps coming up and back around. I become indistinct in the same grooves. ...

My laptop sits on a makeshift desk. It's situated in an east facing window. From my window I see the neighborhood where I live, and an intense ruddy maple tree. At the base of the tree is a dry creek bed  we created this summer. It's now full of the red leaves, recently blown from branches.  Allowing my gaze to go beyond the maple, a tall pine stands and the pale medallions of the aspen glint in the afternoon light. The colors and splendor of the dying and drying leaves affects me every year. I wish I could capture the enticing beauty with photos and words worthy of the display. Copperhead Road plays in the background. The name kind of goes with this piece; a nice strong beat vibrating, much like my heart when autumn arrives. autumn sun rises slowly,  splintering the horizon into blushing skies that appear to the strain of birdsong wild geese honk their lonesome ballad,  taking flight in early morning mist falling gently on grass...

Living in Central Oregon, one becomes accustomed to living with dust. Our semi-arid climate has a sandy, powder-like soil which appears to grow rocks. How do you grow rocks? I don't know, but it happens.  When I'm cleaning and dusting for the umpteenth time I don't recognize dust for the artistry it can become. Beauty is and always has been created from dust. Pottery, paint and even facial treatments come from dust. And we don't think a thing about slapping a mud mask on to tighten our pours or take care of a bee sting. I asked myself an elementary question: What does dust do ? it clings and covers       blows around seeps in cracks and crevises                          permeates it stays and is ever-present       dust is not a respecter of objects it collects, hides       fine, gritty, powder-like in the air     on faces and bo...

Sitting on the patio at Milo's Cellar and Inn, I found myself mesmerized by the sound of the water. The theory was to read and write, but I was absorbed with the sound; conscious of the water spilling over the gutter which had become a fountain. We stayed at Milo's last year. It's an oasis in the desert, tucked above and behind the wine cellar exterior. Once the door closes that leads to the courtyard and rooms, one has entered another place, another time. A place where time is still and quiet, save for the profusion of water tipping over the gutter. water tipped over the down turned gutter covered with years of verdi gris on what was slick copper the splashing was loud; landing in a pool inhabited by shiny koi and a turtle named Tom cattails lived on the edge; conversant with existence in water and soil moss adhered to rocks drinking in each splashed water molecule listening, the sound was rhythmic and steady; a heartbeat in water the water...

I think in fragments. There's something curious and engaging about partial thoughts that have no punctuation or delineation. The oddments leave me wondering what's next, what's beyond the obvious. This unknown is like peering through a hole in the fence to see what’s there or opening a box of junk found in a cranny of the garage. I like to write what I call “Found Poems.” The basic idea is to take a handful of words, fragments if you will, and use them to write a poem.   The words I chose to incorporate into this Found Poem made it difficult,  but it's a good exercise for my mind to pull together disparate words to form something. Poetry should flow, yet the flow is often in fragments. words used: tower, viable, conversation, reservation, treat looking from the tower, perched on the edge beyond visible in every direction conversation viable in the great expanse no distraction, nothing obscured at the vantage above it all hesitation, ...