More ice

I will confess: These are not from one of the worst ice-storms that clobbered Northern Arkansas this week. We in Central Arkansas missed the kick in the gut, but our Northern neighbors are reeling (and still shaking) from the blast. I post these (from a couple of weeks ago here) to join with them in spirit.


Featured: Japanese Magnolia buds a month or so before they start their pink ballooning.
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The Mighty Works Project exist to express a neighborly spirit.

Nice Color

Coming into work in Little Rock, AR the other day, I couldn't wait to get out of the Van. (I van-pool, and no longer have the luxury of stopping whenever or wherever I want.) But the color held out for a nice catch before heading inside.

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The Mighty Works project exists to lament that your computer screen is not capable of rightly displaying these colors, or beaming them into your eyes with the joy I felt in receiving them.

First Moon

From the journals of the Kirk (1989)

I had an odd thought tonight. There, in the dark, in the part that hangs between the moon and me, runs a great river of light. Not just a stream, but a great racing ocean. In fact, I am looking through that very flood to see the lit plane of the moon. And this is strange. Looking though light to see light? Does the light clash?
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We know that the moon is not a light unto itself. It bounces a cold bone flame, borrowed from the sun and modified on a surface of chalk. But what if the moon weren’t there. That ‘place’ -- apart from stars -- would be dark. And what if we swung the moon closer, into the present dark between us. It might refract even harder.

So it hit me. Light is flowing though that space between the moon and I. And not only there, but all about the moon. Up, down, forward, back. Indeed, If we were to litter the night with moons, every one bending light from the dark, our night might shine like the noonday. But how can this be -- the thing that we call night and see as dark is not a “true” dark at all. The thing is a bastion of unseen light!
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For more thoughts on the moon see my poetry blog.

I see

There's a bunch more to come, but I wanted to get these up before they melted.
All pic, January 5 or 6, following drippy ice storm in Little Rock, AR

Pics, 12,4,5 - Japanese Magnolia blooms
Pic 3- maple buds under ice

Sog Fog on the Walking Trail

All Pics, Jan 2, Conway AR, along the walking path. The fog wasn't that thick, but it was wet, and it kind of rained on my head.

Contrary to appearance, the last image is not a double exposure; I simply zoomed (and parked) the lens from a telephoto to wide position, during a thirty second exposure.

Bleak House

Contrary to the name, the house inside was not Bleak. But I find, a walk in the silent cold to aid the digestion of Christmas feasting.

All pics Christmas Day, outside of Stacey's house, Charlotte North Carolina.



the Mighty House Project exists to thank God for color catching warmth of interior decorating. (and for God taking on Flesh in the person of Jesus Christ.)

Incarnation
8-2002


Who knows the eyes of the all-mall-ball,
The sight of a quillion minnows zigging at the sun,
her tongue splitting in a trillion forks,
or
twittering with song?

Who knows the taste of the all-mall-ball--
the diatoms and dates,
the grippy grass and rancid flesh?--
Her voice, a quadul-gum of cricket sound and shriek and speak and breaking glass.

Who knows the hear of the all-mall-ear
These desperate cries and sparking brains
with pierce of train, and trilling prayer?
Who knows the hair of all the hares in the world
and the scale of the fish at once?

I am a son of the all mall ball,
one of many made under EYE
and bound in place--
But given to a shrapnel soul
that likes to ride behind the eyes:

Twisting up- I find my lips pulled taunt with flapping plates
or stretched like hinge from eye to eye,
the fringe of baleen as I sweep,
or snapped back like a bear-trap--
voice cracking to the splendor of descending worm.

Oh I am a mouth with chomping crowns...
bloody sabers draped in deer,
I feel the sear of hot blood in my eye
I roar

I feel the weight of heavy pads,
the feline breath and nail--
I ride the racing nerves until I break
into the fountain of the vulture dance,
and “Aren't you beautiful my love
with bobbing bald and warts and
carrion perfume about your wings.”

I sing the song of morning from the line,
then walk it with flicking tail,
I twine with your like-silky throat,
and find pleasure in your snakey eye.

I am dragonfly amidst cat-tail trees;
darting in shatter-realm of stalk and dock...
I am belly taut with life and kicking hooves,
I feel it move,
but have no thought to tell you how it feels,
I hold a thousand guppies in my gut
and the webbing of the silk-worm net.

I am dolphin dipping joy,
punching through the thick n’ thin, l
aughing at the lemon sky.

I am the queen of nature
(born of her but giving birth
to all that gives us life)
Mother of an ancient “Son”,
building underneath my lungs
and soon the ONE of whom the mall-ball sings
(or twists within),
will find
the master of our liberation
walking in our eyes.

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Note: This very weird poem is (among other things) a reflection on the omniscience of God. What I might try with imagination --living through the eyes of other beasts or men (or Mary in the last verse) –-is a world that God knows in its absolute fullness. He sees from every place, all at once and all the time. No thing is hidden from his eye. All things belong to Him. And we shall behold Him.

Floor

Next to the last rose

Not sure if this really is the next to the last rose, but I sure am surprised to see any in mid November. (This one at home appears to be the last, but they still have quite a few in the garden at work.)

The Golden Hour Part 2 (evening)

Back, west facing side of the AR State Capitol

Can you find the broken brick?

Foggy Moony Night

Thanks Scott Hinton, for the phone call, telling me to look outside.

Slant