From Cerrillos to South Capitol

Poet applause in my heart

I wake into a Sunday of NPR discussion of Evangelical adoptions and Irish music and texting about a new odd job —to add to the five I already have in that slow flexible climb to enough a month for living.   I wake from a dream that spews forth like the Pavlof volcano erupting in Alaska.  Percolating notions and stand-ins for something important all mixed together and exploding from my unconscious.  The most vivid: the boa constrictor emerging from the side of the yard that is really a bedroom who turns into an alligator at the curb and flies across the street to climb a concrete porch where it is now a psychedelic lion with pink and purple flowers all beautiful and strong on the stoop.  Whoa.  From fear to glory.  And I fly too.  On my back, levitating in a long hall while two men look on.  As if I have to prove myself.  To rise up from “the help” wiping the salad dressing off the floor.  Okay.  Enough.  But I find dreaming fascinating.  And at the end of it all 34A appears.  A long ago number on a hospital bracelet that belonged to my mother.  Her room.  I made art out of it 10 years ago.  What are these messages?  These stories unfolding?

 

On Thursday I take my car in for brakes and walk from Cerrillos to South Capitol.  It is morning and I walk in the shadow of the buildings on the East side of the street as if I am in a foreign country.  Alive and elated and joyful.  Where does that come from:  a walk outside the perimeter of our own lives?  A change of direction?  Graffiti and signage and the dishevelment of an old street.  Gritty.  I like gritty.  I take out my new smartphone to snap photos as I go.  It so thin and heavy and I fear I may drop it.  I feel a bit conspicuous but that doesn’t matter.  Really.  At Baca Street I push the button to cross and take myself to Counter Culture where I’ve not been and eat the best lemon poppyseed cake ever with an equally delicious latte at a table by the wall beneath the art of photographs for pets.  The phone rings.

I rise to the occasion of the question and outside find a path I did not know that carries me all the way to the Railyard Park in a matter of minutes.  Past the community garden.  The Rail Runner runs and I pause to take its picture.  On my way to work but I have a moment to spare.  And now I vow to do that weekly.  A walk from this neighborhood to that neighborhood on a path that will carry to coffee.  To rambling thoughts of possibility and a person I use to be — on other paths.  In other places.

In this slow coming spring the days pass without focus.  A blur of interview and company and shuttle here and there.   The Etsy site undone.  The blog unwritten.  No poetry for Wednesday.  But there has been art.  In Microscale in Madrid at Metallo Gallery and An Affair with the Muse at Kristin Johnson Fine Art in Santa Fe where my work shares the walls with other artists, known and emerging and the joy of friendship and good times and wine and food and walking beneath the stars of the New Mexico sky.  A glimpse at  “behind-the-scenes” of movie making on porches and side streets and vans with kitchens on Armijo.  Those yellow signs with letters sideways and upside down that instruct those in the know on where to go.

 

And the trip to the Gulf Coast of Florida that blew open my closed perceptions has come and gone and my photos not posted or sent to friends, but still I keep the weather of St. Pete on my homepage.  Just in case.  I check rentals on craigslist and subscribe to a newsletter and the Warehouse Arts District but will the humidity be too big an obstacle? And my mom has gone into the hospital and is out again as I plan a trip back for the family reunion.  For my birthday.  To get together with sisters and brothers and cousins and those aunts and uncles that remains.  A hug to my dad and hopefully more than 30 minutes.  So hard to fit it all in.  A moment here and dashing off for a moment there.  Maybe a swim in a lake, a walk on the beach of Lake Michigan, wine tasting and a walk in the country but how to get from Detroit to Durand?  No public transportation that allows independence except a car I won’t really need and one might as well pay the difference to fly into the local airport.  For convenience but it is steep.  Pause.

Everything is changing.

travel

Today a poetry reading in Eldorado.  200 NM poems.  I will sit in the audience to applaud the poets.  Important to applaud the poets.

Go well into the tomato starts, the basil outside the door, the pots of pansies that make you smile.  Through whatever gate you walk into whatever street you travel onto that path that carries us forward.  To life without fear.  To love.  To ourselves in all our imperfect beauty and authenticity.

Brenda is a visual artist and occasional poet who lives too far from the ocean but loves her new digs in South Capitol.  Her work can be seen at Kristin Johnson Fine Art or hereIn Microscale is up through the end of May at Metallo Gallery in Madrid.  Studio visits welcome and by appointment.

 

 

Posted in Dreams, Poetry, South Capitol, Travel Tagged , , , , , , , , |

Ramblings on time and Boston and what if and what have you and spring so slow in coming does not violence diminish and so forth

Time feels ultimately the most precious today.  Saturday and too soon it passes.  Maybe because of death and change and spring so slow in coming.  Maybe because I want it to slow down.  To reverse.  Vacation.  Announcement.  Dismemberment. A moment.  A step to the right or to the left.  So much depends on instinct. Survival or consequence. To treasure the moments of no obligation and pansies in clay pots in a yard where the wind blows and no rain falls.  Only tears.  I want to relax in a bath, to fade into the mystery of nothing and everything.  Lavender.  Gelato.  Of thought and feeling and sob.  I want Dzhokhar Tsarnaev to be innocent.  I want to trust our government.   Implications of suicide but a boat riddled with bullet holes where he lay bloodied.  An exchange of gunfire. . . ?  Maybe.  Everything.  He lifts his shirt in surrender.  We live in a violent time.  I want to believe in America.  Tic tac toe.  Hopscotch.  Chalk and circumstance.  Circumcision.  Tequila and ginger ale and fertilizer.  Viagra does not a man make.  Though he prevails beyond the expiration date of do over and do again and let it be.  Does not ask to put cream on a vagina. Good night.  Go well. Good-bye.

Another woman is raped in India.  A drone kills a family sitting down to dinner in Iraq.  Syria sends their regards.  Condolence.  Compassion.   Newlyweds and brothers and others have lost their limbs at the Boston Marathon bombing.  One minute they were whole and now they are broken. Healing. An earthquake, an explosion and words hurled across the internet like anomaly.  Shards that penetrate.  Bury and burn and stain.  In America we shut down a metropolitan area of millions to hunt for one man who lies bleeding in a boat, under a tarp, and I want to know more –tell me what did you see when you climbed that ladder?  Information comes slowly like spring. The possibility of the death penalty like the bud of a tulip red or yellow or withering in the sun. Some anticipate with longing and joy.  Others cannot comprehend.  Carefully (or not so) treading media hiccup remorse not so much but sometimes to what end? –many times already the FBI inquired and followed this man in the black hat.  Dead.  But what do I know? Why am I so upset? Consumed? Silenced?  We wait as instructed under the bed for the bogey man to go away.  To trust.   Peter Pan out the window.  Mary Poppins with her umbrella. . .fly away

. . .The sad assumption carried in these reports is that Americans lack the intellectual equipment and moral imagination to tell the difference between an individual and a group. It’s an assumption that has, in the past, occasionally proven valid. Twitter quote.

 

My Aunt Rody died this week.  They greeted the family from 2 – 4pm today EST.  I am the absentee family member.  Always.  Is it only money for airfare or something else?  I miss them all.  The dead and the living.  Birthday and kitchen conversation and new recipes.  And now there are only three (out of 12 siblings).  I trim the juniper outside my window with a scissors because it is all I have.  Butcher the root of cactus with an old rusty shovel.  Red scabs on the top of my palms like needle points. It is manic energy. After my eyes glaze over at my limited value added options at Go Wireless.  The energy of sales.  I am still conflicted about upgrading to a smartphone. Today anyway.  Turn down the offer of friends.

Struggle with independence. I am an alien. Not autistic yet not dissimilar the lack of articulation easily understood by others.  Cannot explain.  Still I am grateful for thinking deeply.  That all my limbs are attached.  For the capacity of quietude and patience.  The moon rising in the east.  A free yellow table at the side of the road.  Street furniture. An art opening.  Scallops with pasta and conversation.  A friend connects the bombings to poetry to hold onto hope and understanding. Eloquently. To gentle the human.  But cereal is $6/box and I don’t even have children.  No milk in the house.

I’ve been completely absorbed by the  marathon bombings/man hunt all week and now filled with questions because the character of suspect #2 (white hat) is of such a sweet intelligent well-liked young man, and isn’t that bizarre (white hat/black hat) –the fact that he became a natuarilized US citizen on September 11th one year ago.  Do people still believe in coincidence?  FBI.  Dogs sniff the finish line.  Only the bones blown to smithereens –and after the fact.

I call a friend but leave no message.  Will that be evidence later?  Used against me in the court of relationships?  Drown in my wine.  The wind a continuous companion in the high desert does nothing to dilute the dysfunction of day job.  No compatibility though I did two loads of laundry.  No one responds to hello. Blatant abandon.  The sweet dog growls.  This is life. Day to day.  Guns are the new normal.  On patio cafés.  There is no substitute for compassion.  For critical thinking.  CNN in the airport. Our choice is surrender.  How much do they pay for that privilege?  Bombard with opinion and jump to conclusion give the dog a bone who’s on first?  Guns and gratitude and enemy combatant.  Terrorist.  On line streaming asks my preference on commercials:  Walgreens, US Bank or US Army.  Really?  Houston we have a problem.  But I am silenced.  No one talking or listening. Don’t forget your helmet.  Falling.  Fear.  Fallen.  Fell.  Fetch.  Fuck.  Future.  Fodder.  Folly.  Feelings. Feet. Font. Fiddle. Fault.  Miranda.

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Brenda is an occasional poet and visual artist currently living in Santa Fe, NM.  For information on upcoming exhibitions please visit her website

Posted in Blog, Free Writings Tagged , , , , , |

Dogs and Connection

Spring is a blustery time.  A time of longing and too soon and still cold and then the phone rings and the cat steps out of the cupboard and well it is no ordinary Saturday.  I have been dog sitting the past few months.  Part of my new Girl Friday/Personal Assistant duties even though not on my original “task list” –who knew I had such capacity to love given my solitary track record and the great distances between my two legged relationships .  So thank you life for giving me other people’s pets to love.  And there have been a variety:  Labradoodle (very regal), Corgi (energetic) and now two Bulldogs I’m not quite sure how to describe.

Almost reptilian their weight low to the ground.  That under bite so hillbilly dental and pushed in (lovable) face that looks up with longing and rests easily on the top of my foot.  Their coat beautiful and buff.  I listen to them lick themselves clean like a cat.  And they snore and snort all through the night.  I contemplate changing rooms though imagine they would simply follow me so I stay put.  Adjust.  When I wake in the morning there they are.  Waiting (heaven only knows how long) for me to wake too.  Ruby does a little dance and so suddenly I am dancing too.  Around this borrowed bedroom in leaps and circles, and even Ace does a little thing with his front paw.  All so happy.  The other dogs on my watch have the same routine.  Wait patiently beside the bed. For my eyes to open.  For my voice to call their name.  To begin again.  Good thing I’m a morning person.  All this unconditional adoration before coffee.

And what’s not to love about them too when they ask so little of you, a walk in the arroyo, a belly rub, a few tender words, give the dog a bone.   Ruby Tuesday and Ace is the Place and the Rubicon and well there is no judgment in their eyes. Not even walking on dog slobber while I’m trying to cook dinner is too annoying.  Minor on some level – compared to sleeping in the wet spot–though I do go in search of slippers.

 And today a big wind blows.  The weather nemesis that is Santa Fe in spring.  Thirty-six degrees before wind chill.  I go on a walkabout to explore trails on the north side of Hyde Park Road.  Invigorating.  Love every minute.  The you are here trail number scratched out at every sign.  Who does these things? The Buddha on top of the ridge.  Dust billows in the valley.  A man who forgot his hat.  I lost in nostalgia from a phone call that crossed 30 years to ring that morning.  The voice a connection that lights you up like Christmas.  Puts you back together in a way you forgot you were broken.  I barely 19.  He saw me like an x-ray.  All of us:  from Ohio and Michigan and Minnesota.

All broken and brilliant, hopeful and strong.  Dancing our dreams at the 3.2 bar and hiking our way through the Rockies. He told me you haven’t lived long enough to look back on your life.  And now I have.  I could spend the rest of my life having that conversation.  So there it is –come full circle.  This voice from the past holding my letter in his hands.  A spring blizzard raging.  He 30 years sober and married.  Made a good life.  I so certain he had walked off the edge a long time ago cannot even describe the elation.  Thrilled he is alive and well.  Thriving.  Somehow this gives me permission for happiness too.  For success no matter the failures or judgments.  What joy to stand visible in the eyes of a beholder who saw you the first time your world cracked open.  And yes, I do normal well I tell him.  We laugh.

 

The wind whirling so strong now.  It whistles and bends low then flares up like fire.  All the ghosts are flung out of hiding.  I hear them skipping across the roof and against the windows and imagine my ristra has blown off the side of the house again.  Chile seeds scattered like pearls.  Like today.  Gifts come when we least expect them.  Pick them up and put them in your pocket.  For safekeeping.

We all sleep at the base of the volcano Sage.

When not dog sitting or running errands for other people Brenda works in her home studio painting abstract shapes on small canvas and writing the occasional poem.  Her work can be seen at the new Kristin Johnson Fine Art Gallery in Santa Fe or on her website.  Studio visits welcome and by appointment.

 

 

Posted in Blog, Brenda Roper, Hiking Tagged , , |

March madness (not a shopping expedition)

March came on Friday.  Rabbit rabbit. A madness that blows in with the longing for spring.  The return of  light and warmth and hope for our weary winter souls.  Though we carry on.  Make our plans.  I felt disoriented.   Last week my balance off kilter.  Unsure where to be when, double booking.  Then pause.  Who’s on first?  Full moon.  A gentle interlude.  Obsession and isolation and be patient.  I feed myself movies and rice.  And today the sun shines so brilliant on flowers inside my house.  All the joy floods through the door.

Random thoughts from a weekend where winter reigned — beneath a full moon:

  • they call them “designer dogs” –crossing a Labrador with a standard poodle.  Labradoodle.  Originated in Australia. Love the Besa dog
  • to MAC or not to mac –and cheese.  PC?  These questions and iPhone or Droid and options and do I really need a smart phone?
  • I could run away my winter fat on the Dale Ball trails.  Or run away.
  • panic at being poor though not homeless and the perspective that brings it all back to grateful am I and so rich despite the bank balance and lucky too and talk to sisters and friends and take a bath and take a hike and maybe a walk on the wilder side of my nature.
  • Homeland has caught my attention and I cringe when Carrie goes through shock therapy thinking she’s wrong when she is the only one who has it right.  Still the label of crazy too convenient for dismissal in a world that does not allow for other. (I know it’s only sitcom).


And today the hope of spring prevails.  Fresh chard from the Farmer’s Market.  The mailman’s radio tuned to a ball game.  Bring me some peanuts and cracker jacks. . . permeated my sense of accomplishment at using day-glo zip ties to repair my dryer rack.  My version of duct tape.  I sat it in the yard feeling happy with laundry.  Sat in the sun talking on the phone to my big sister.  Chicken in the oven.  A glass of French pinot.

 


And I am painting.  Oil.  Glazing.  Small works on canvas.  Are they equations or villages or walls — or simply abstract shapes without narration?  Do I scribble more or less?  Excavate.  Smooth over.  Draw.  Then wipe it all away.  I am intuitive but the paintings do not feel intuitively painted.  Expressive yes but still I hold back.  Uncertain.  How to proceed.  When to stop?  Outline or blend?  What tool works best with oil?  I experiment. I am a trial and error artist.  Some call it process.  Not to be confused with progress though I believe I am making some.  Progress.

A friend gifted me 6 inches of Art News.  I look through the pages.  Tear out an image.  The cat rolls on her back.  I tape up an abstract by Lillian Orlowsky (who studied with Hans Hoffman).  Her foundation PAAM offers a grant to painters over 45.  Check it out!

 

What do you think?

I’m hopeful the gallery might be interested.  For the May opening.  Small works.  And if not I am still having fun.  On my path.  Figuring it out — one painting at a time.

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Brenda is a visual artist and occasional poet who works as a Personal Assistant/Girl Friday to a variety of interesting people in Santa Fe, NM.  Please visit her website for more images of her work.  Studio visits welcome by appointment.

Posted in Blog, Studio Art Tagged , , , , |

Art on the Fence


I have a new address and a massage scheduled for Valentine’s Day.  No gelato.  A raven hangs from the ceiling.  Faux leather couch and Victorian chic mingle beneath the skylight.  Art on the walls, under the bed, inside the closet and on the coyote fence “Family Tree”.  Outside and unprotected and I enjoy the view over my computer and out the window.  Today snow on the edge of the canvas.  It will weather.  I will weather too.  Too weather will I on the edge of the snow covered canvas.

Yesterday I went to the laundromat.  Hmmm.  Finished “Gone Girl” and watched the clothes go ‘round.  A crossing to another time.  In life.  Like prison or welfare but really only a place off the side of the road.  Not an A ticket but not lock down.  Quarters and baskets on wheels and people in sweat pants.  A family.  Not sure I’ll return but my clothes are clean.

At my new address the freezer is broken so I buy cake.  Chocolate divine.  Earl Grey tea with cream.  A gas stove cooks the coffee thick and black as I listen for the sound of perfection.  Stove top espresso.  Still working it out.  I get nervous when I have too much food in the refrigerator.  Called the GE repair man. Organized the studio and ready to mess it up with painting over paintings.  Gesso and begin again.  Me too.  Too again begin. Tabula rasa.

Bought a ticket to a beach today.  Florida.  Girlfriends.  April.  Not Key West but key enough sand and art museum Ringling and Dali and Contemporary Fine.  Not sure I can afford to go but I go anyway.  Cannot afford not to. Go. Better motto.   Odd jobs find me and thank you.  Dog sit cat sit see Spot run.  House tending people tending no groceries.  The Pope resigned.

The Year of the Snake.  Cancer Dog.

Travel is good.  Friendship and barefoot sunsets with wine.  Perspective and spring all at once.  I walked a new direction from my new address.  Today. South and west instead of north and east.  The fine art of geography and a view of the mountains. Stone wall.  Cold wind.  Sunshine.  Winter refreshing sit in the yard for a minute.  No more. New door.  My mailman is Pearl.  Netflix arrives.  A sad story.  A disturbing book.  Bestseller.  Hmmm.

 

What do you want to read in your Hallmark greeting on Valentine’s Day?

 

Brenda is a visual artist and occasional poet who works at a variety of  day jobs.   Her work is currently on display at the new Kristin Johnson Gallery in Santa Fe and has  been accepted into the Miniatures Show at Metallo Gallery in Madrid.  Opening reception May 4th.  Studio visits welcome and by appointment.

Posted in Blog, Brenda Roper, Travel Tagged , |

endings, beginnings and 9 degrees. . .

I just finished the bag of sea salt & vinegar potato chips I purchased on Labor Day weekend –they expired at the end of the year.  Washed down with a bottle of winter brew dark beer still in my refrigerator from the holidays because everyone drinks wine instead.  Me too but today it felt right.  One beer.  Late afternoon.  Sunday football I do not watch though I know the Broncos lost and a friend is rooting for Seattle.  And though sunny outside it is well below freezing.  A day worthy of the bomber hat and big boots.  The beer, the salty potato chips, the rest of the Trader Joe’s chicken salad with cranberries and all those calories (justified) because I am moving.  Across town.

Pulling out the stove in one house to clean and pulling out the stove in the other.  To clean too.  Apparently something built a nest beneath the stove top, and between the wall and the oven since the last tenant.  Or maybe the last tenant never cooked and those curled up leaves are from a former former tenant who had a little grow operation.  This might explain the problem with the deadbolt on the front door and the reason it was not working yesterday.  Or the fact it was 9 degrees.  Or operator failure.  Or because the doorjamb has been pried open with a crow bar so many times the entire door is broken inside, but the landlord wants to make it right.  Has. Lovely people.  Thank you.  — still I’m pushing for a new door +  a screen door too.  With a little eye hook.  For summer.

It is a sweet little loft casita.  I will be happy there.  A gate for greeting.  A chile ristra against the adobe.  The light is fantastic and I have my own yard and coyote fence, for privacy and entertaining.  Don’t laugh.  I do occasionally invite friends over.  That said I like that it is on a one-way alley and not exactly easy to explain the exact location or how to drive to arrive.  The wall outside my kitchen window is built of stone.  Picturesque.  It feels country European to me. I  pretend I am near the vineyards of Tuscany though happily in Santa Fe.   South Capitol.  I will plant sunflowers and geraniums and sit beneath my umbrella to bask in their beauty.

Leaving El Zaguan is not without pangs of “will miss you” –the most charming apartment and compound ever, creative neighbors/friends, fantastic staff who leave little gifts outside my door:  firewood, rusty metal, boxes, a painted glass, vintage linens, donuts and books and clothes. . .good memories.  It has been fun and fruitful and I am happy for the experience(s).  Did I sit on the porch swing often enough on summer Sunday afternoons?  Walk around the garden?  Look at the stars?  For those creative types looking for an artful life in 500+ square feet I hope you consider applying to the Historic Santa Fe Foundation.

 

Life and the New Year are filled with a celebration of  endings and beginnings.  One job ends another door opens.  That kind of thing.  Change and poetry and art in new places.  Four of my 12”x12” oil on canvas will be part of the small works room at the new Kristin Johnson fine art gallery located at 323 East Palace in Santa Fe (across from La Posada).  I hope you can make the New Year’s Opening Reception this Friday January 18th from 5-8pm.  The gallery features a fantastic selection of contemporary fine art including abstract expressionism, encaustic and photography.  I am thrilled to be a part of this great addition to the Santa Fe art scene.

Transition

On the writing front I  rekindled a poetry group after a long hiatus.  Actually a resurgence of the one from Alaska.  Just Mike and I at the moment.  Trusted friends. We miss you Jim.  Perhaps inspired by the combining of art and poetry in the Odes & Offerings exhibition of last spring or the current Voice to Image exhibit at Vivo Contemporary where Mike (Burwell) responded to the work of Ro Calhoun and read his poem at the opening last week.  Or perhaps it was simply time to begin again.  The poem I brought to the table, begun in May 2011 and untouched until a few weeks ago, is a long two page ramble peppered with memory and lyricism, about meeting my biological father.  Maybe I’ll read it at the upcoming reading at El Zaguan –the 2nd in a series of on-going readings by writers/artists in residence.  Sunday afternoon January 27th, 2013.  545 Canyon Road, Santa Fe. Free and open to the public.  Time TBA.

 

Posted in Brenda Roper, Poetry, Studio Art Tagged , , , , , , , |

High Road Haiku-ing and Happy New Year!

The weekend between the ending of one year and the beginning of another.  By calendar.  The light softly returns. Three clementines shrivel in their bowl and my brother hooks up to a sodium IV.  I buy a $10 ristra from a truck in Chimayo and later coconut/carrot cake interlude with coffee and friends on the High Road to Taos.

Today laundry and quietude and a Sunday drive to Madrid where all roads end at the Mine Shaft after a wee bit of shopping.  A friend visiting from New York via Alaska and Afghanistan finds boots for buying that are very custom cool –while I choose the Silver Margarita.  Cheers.  and thank you and sometimes life is all about food.  Tamales wrapped in corn husks with deep red chile and kobe beef burgers with green chile on top.

Salty hand-cut fries and conversation before the music. Oh! Christmas Eve habanero hot fudge with real vanilla ice cream.  Holiday soup drop in before or after the Farolito Canyon Road walkabout and champagne/eggnog cheer meeting the family of friends.  A cocoa log for sharing from a red plate, chicken mole and more red than white.  Wine.  Saturday Santa mission through the Jemez and a first trip to Mu Du noodles — certainly not a last. Fantastic flavors in generous white bowl warm sake in ceramic cups.  Then another.  Coconut lime sorbet so fully satiated. Laughter and talk of travel and Land Rovers and everyone moving to Santa Fe. Longing and lasting and listing and poetry on the horizon.  There is merriment and change and the full moon risen and waning.   And here’s to haiku-ing on the High Road, haiku-ing on paper napkins and happy New Year haiku-ing all those roads we may travel down in 2013.  To that place where dreams are discovered.  Friends and food and fools are we.  With a little blues on the side.  Harmonica happiness to all.

 

Ode to Sugar Nymph

 Cake on the High Road

Truchas? Trampas? Penasco!

Too much white frosting

–Mike Burwell (and friends)

 

Corona Mine Shaft Blues

Mandolin haiku

Sunday shot of Tequila

sings me yesterday

–Brenda Roper (and friends)

Brenda is currently one of six writers and artists living in the oldest artist colony on Canyon Road.  Studio visits welcome by appointment.  Happy New Year!!

Posted in Blog, Poetry, Travel Tagged , , , |

Merry Christmas card & Happy Holidays –!

BELIEVE in possible. . .window
Christmas tree in store white
magic lights do glow and outside
a snow angel or two.  Jingle bell
the cathedral rings long. Then try
the road less traveled by. . .
 
 HAPPY Holidays jingle JINgLE
solstice sweet holy Hallejulah
JOY to fire light the world on
and fly our singing hearts oh!
wings of peace away fly away to
territory untethered. . .cloud
snow star memory tear whisper
kiss kind friendship into a New Year!
 
Peace and bliss and possible. . .
 
 
 

Merry Christmas & JOYful

ode to snowflakes

tree lights song. . .
 
all the stockings are hung by the
Chimney with care. . .ice skates,
brick cardboard fire place hot
cocoa and orange memory. Santa 
cookies sugar and icing. Nuts in
a bowl for cracking.  A box of
chocolates.  Poke.  A carrot for
Rudolph up on the rooftop and sing
Frosty the Snowman and Dickens. . .
it’s a Wonderful Life White Christmas
–peace on earth goodwill toward men
 


and woman.  Sweet clementines

 

In the bathtub on Saturday it comes to me a calling for wilderness.  A sojourn walkabout drive all the way to South America across many borders.  Across the portrayed realities of gunman and drama and fear.  Into the possible the unknown the joyful abundance of challenge and shift and belief.  To experience the tides as they rush in than out.  Toe heart rushing through and away and over flowing the river floods and bleeds no bandage thick enough to sustain the violence say push push believe drive go open up gratitude kind truth like a Hallmark Card.  Put down our weapons of mass destruction drone nuclear cold war pharmaceutical economy and help the butcher’s son the widow’s daughter.  Make room for those who need.  And that is all of us.  All.  Sweet juice dribble down our cheeks over our lips to love.

*******

Brenda Roper is one of 6 writers and artists currently living in the oldest artist colony on Canyon Road in Santa Fe.   Her work forthcoming in Cirque the Solstice Issue #7.

Posted in Blog, Brenda Roper, Poetry Tagged , , , |

First BIG snow and a walkabout. . .

Sunday brought the first BIG snow of the season to Santa Fe — 5+ inches and the roads are ridiculous but before I ventured out by car today I ventured out by big boots, warm hat, sunglasses and camera.  A tourist on a walkabout of her own neighborhood.  The historic Eastside:  Canyon, Gormley Lane, Acequia Madre, Garcia Street and back to her lovely abode at El Zaguan where free firewood was being gifted (thank you). Here are a few favorites. . .

 

sit with a rose perfect and pink. . .ode to biking or a patriotic Christmas red and green

Not my door but classic –Santa Fe stylin. . .

Ristas, ride, welcome, relax with a cup of coffee —

Namaste –!

Happy Hanukkah, Happy Holidays, Happy Our lady of Guadalupe Feast Day and other solstice celebrations in these days of little light.  Go into the light of your own hearts.  Go well.  Celebrate. Go with fire and grace.  Go with intention.  Do good.  Cheers!!

 

Brenda is one of six artist and writers in residence currently residing at El Zaguan.  Please stop by 545 Canyon Road for the annual Holiday Exhibit on view most weekdays 10 – 4pm and Saturdays noon to 4 o’clock.  Her work is also on display at the Rio Grande Arts Feast Day exhibition honoring Our Lady of Guadalupe at the Lucky Bean Cafe in the Sanbusco Market in Santa Fe.  Opening Wednesday December 12th from 6 to 8pm.  Through January 6, 2013.

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Out and about: the studio, the art and the neighborhood

Art and love and the luminosity of such things. . .

I enjoy snippets of my own apartment/studio as fodder for contemplation and inspiration –here a very cool wooden decoy duck yellow eye found object from the yard of a friend and on my chair often I find gifts, a vintage speedometer that I love (thank you. . .?), a paper bag filled with vintage doilies, a bucket of gesso, a copy of Blue Mesa and other literary magazines, and sometimes a note directing me to offerings of rusty wire and such, donuts and other treats. . .$20 in the handle of my door for the wifi we share.

Ahoy! there potential patrons and weary wanderers can we entice you in for cider and clementines. . .a nickel and we’ll tell your fortune or you can tell ours.  Happy Holidays!! Art for sell or for free (to look)  come in, have a seat, stay awhile tell your friends.  Pretty quiet on Canyon but a beautiful day.  We gather together in harmony. Patty Griffin making pies all day no one doing laundry.  Asti and chocolate and no snow falls. Still darkness comes early.

El Zaguan Holiday Exhibition 545 Canyon 12-4pm on Saturdays through December and most weekdays

*****

Up  the block I’m feeding the cat of a friend, and the pigeons, and really it is a bit of a backyard menagerie with the extremely social Polish chickens in feathers of  gray and white and black –with showy tufts on top. . .dancing madly across the yard to greet me at the gate.  Every time like the first. Time. What joy in their unconditional adoration.  Who knew? I smile just to think of them.  Their curiosity open and delightful and free from fear.  Peck peck nibble. Squawk.

Already December.  Narcissism on my mind and really it sounds like a new age ailment/affliction and too noble or needy or (really?  how did I get here –again?) to discuss though it is alive and well and sadly I bang my head against self-doubt and responsibility and action as I take steps to extract myself from the clutches of what is no longer benign. And remind myself:  It is okay to have an opinion.  To (agree to) disagree.  To be separate from your lover, boss, friend. . .etc.   I am not an appendage.  Not your appendage.  Enlightenment comes knocking knocking library books and conversation and a few tears on the walk this afternoon.  I use to cry everyday –my (ab)normal and now so seldom.  From one extreme to the other we go at times to find our way back to center. To balance.  To nature and hiking and phone calls to sisters. When one door closes another opens —they say.  A whole lifetime ahead of me.  Grandma lived to 96 and my mother just celebrated her 80th birthday.  Love those chickens.

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