blue

once upon a time

dessin

Art Class

I remember art class.

Hot. Flushed. Unsure.

I felt naked.

What was I supposed to do?

Everyone else seemed to know how to draw but me.

What was I revealing?

And then it happened.

I became absorbed in those strokes, those lines.

Nothing else mattered.

Unknown territory.

Exploration.

No time limit, no rules, no boundaries.

The lines came rapidly, the charcoal tamed.

And then, it was finished, the drawing and the next sheet of paper,
gleamed in expectation.

Time stood still.

growing weary

the last rose of summer
three apples have fallen from their trees-
leaves are turning brown,
and i am growing weary-
duane michals
9/11/2005

for ruth

ranunculus

the room where my grandmother slept...

I never entered the room
where my grandmother slept,
the room at the top of the stairs.

I never entered the room
where my grandmother embroidered flowers
and sang the secrets and dreams of a lost landscape.

I never entered
the room where my grandmother slept away the tears
of those stolen years.

Instead she baked and cooked and cleaned.
She washed and ironed and folded.
She pickled and canned and served.

A household to run, a child to raise.
A new country.

She planted a garden,
And made things grow,
flower and bear fruit.

Roses and summer cherries.

I wondered if she was lonely
in the solitary world
of her mother tongue.

A small child her constant companion.

She once tamed a motherless robin
Fallen from its nest.
Fed the tiny bird water with an eyedropper
and dissected worms with tweezers.

Enchanted, I watched.
Her kindness and gentleness engraved forever on my soul.

waiting for caravaggio

the sound of the dog barking in the silence

laundry love

laundry love

laundry love
venice venezia vendig
walking dampness palazzi the
sound of a dog barking in the dark
the sound of a dog barking
in the darkness
aube dawn mist
and water silent steps on cobblestone laundry
love in the morning and the inevitable
dusk when the light plays on
the facades of buildings and
amorphous forms become invisible
again before nightfall and the sound
of the dog barking in the silence –
in the darkness before the night falls.
Ewa Monika Zebrowski

florian

pink palazzo

father and son