March Arts Marathon:
March Arts Marathon 2024 Midway Gallery
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Visual Gallery
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Writing Gallery
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Simone Arnold Keffiyehs “Not a hate crime.” Molten lava climbs up my throat. “A hateful crime nonetheless.” Eyes clouding red. “Must follow the letter of the law.” Tongue sharpening, teeth gnashing “He walked out of the home very nervous.” White knuckled and red smiles on palms. “He is mentally ill.” Stomach a roiling sea seeking release. “I’ve been waiting for you.” Cold lead through veins. “He pleads not guilty.” Tears dropping quenching the fire.
Simone Arnold Hex #6A0DAD Lavender dappled light caress my face awake As visions of lilac swirl into focus While dripping in amethyst sheets. I robe myself in fine indigo Trimming my feet ripe plum. Radiating royalty and luxury I greet the day Swaddled with creative intent.
Simone Arnold The Beauty of Words Soft words written on delicate paper Scratching pens laying down vibrant ink A story waiting to be told in beautiful detail While savoring the sensation of making words. A forge master with a pen Solitary vowels and consonants the raw material The mind heating them into liquid So they may ooze from the hammer onto the page Cooling into complete words and sentences Shaped together into a story. Holding up the finished product Admiring the craftsmanship Metaphors lovingly placed Gilded with adjectives to highlight its beauty A masterpiece for all to read.
Orah Moore
Orah Moore
Orah Moore
Angela V Grace The point of my creativity is to form community by asking my sponsors, friends and family to give me an opening and/or closing sentence and the muse and I will do the rest. Opening and closing sentence suggested by my husband Dave. Thanks Dave. There's a knock on the door. March 2nd There's a knock on the door. Muriel had just settled back into her favorite slightly worn beige recliner after an afternoon of doing practically nothing. What's to do? She, as it so happens, is the last person on earth! You are going to have to suspend your disbelief please and not be nitpicky if my story is going to work. Help me out here. She is the last person on earth, and she knows it. As she ambles to the door, she recalls that it's been many years since the Great War to end all wars was over. Well, it ended them all for sure because Muriel, an American, is the last man standing, so to speak. She was a ordinary, middle-aged mother and wife with an ordinary job, living in a small ordinary town in South Carolina when the war began. Now she is an ordinary woman of a certain age sitting in her ordinary beige chair, all alone. She actually doesn't mind being alone, rather likes it. She can do what she pleases without taking anyone else's needs into account, a habit hard to break. She can eat when she wants, sleep when she wants and not comb her graying hair if she wants. The climate is agreeable and there is plenty of rain to catch. If she needs to bathe, she jumps in the river, naked. Breaking into the grocery stores is quite fun too and eating outdated canned goods hasn't killed her yet, once she found a can opener. Ah, the array of junk food without guilt is endless. Clean or make her bed-forget it. She walks a lot and sight sees as far as she can walk, sometimes window shopping. Without people the earth heals itself slowly but surely. So, you can see, she lacks for nothing. But…the question she asks herself is-why? Why her? Of all the extraordinary people who could have survived, why her? She puts it in the back of her mind so as not to spoil her quiet, comfy solitude. Oh, yes,… there was a knock on the door. Unafraid, but curious, she pushes herself out of the chair and goes to the unlocked (of course) door. Pausing before she opens it, she thinks-is this Pandora's box? Maybe I shouldn't open it. But… she opens it wide and steps out on the worn concrete step. There in her front yard are several hundred people, waving and cheering for her. A chant goes up, Mur-ie-l, Mur-ie-l, Mur-ie-l! What the…? They are shouting “I love you Muriel” and “come be with us!” All the attention and love she ever desired is in her front yard. She slams the door shut, locks it and goes back to her faithful chair. Ah, peace again. There's a knock on the door. Love, keep 'em coming, Angie.
Angela V Grace The point of my creativity is to form community by asking my sponsors, friends and family to give me an opening and/or closing sentence and the muse and I will do the rest. Thanks to my friend Barbara O. for the opening sentence. If I was a chicken… March 6th If I was a chicken…speaking of chickens, I have a true story about chickens. Warning: R rated, violence, nudity, smoking, sex (well, not the last two.) If you are the least bit squeamish, skip this one and I'll see you tomorrow. (Ha ha, I bet you read on anyway.) About fifty years ago, my neighbors back in Massachusetts decided to be gentleman farmers and raise some chickens. So, soon there were about a dozen little peepers pecking away on their lawn. They, of course, grew and grew until it was time to slaughter them. Being kindhearted people, and they didn't know how to do it anyway, didn't want to chop their heads off so they decided to drown them. Yep, you heard me right. Drown them! Last chance to stop reading! Two large plastic trashcans appeared and into the water went the chickens. Now here's the bad part-both of our families, including children, were present for the chickens' demise. I don't know what we were thinking having the children present but, of course, they were entranced. After a reasonable amount of time, off came the lids with everyone crowding around to see the results. Well…those chickens came a-flying out of the water, with wings a-flapping, feet a-clawing and feathers a-flying. Fountains of water shot out of the two little holes above their beaks. Everyone was stunned to see a dozen chickens shooting geysers into the air and running around like they had had their heads cut off. I'm embarrassed to say it was as funny as hell, then and as I recall it now. Sorry A proper chicken killer was called and did the job properly without an audience. When chicken was served at dinner, no one ate it. Love, keep 'em coming, Angie.
Angela V Grace The point of my creativity is to form community by asking my sponsors, friends and family to give me an opening and/or closing sentence. Thanks to my friend, Lyn, for this really weird closing sentence. The thing hanging from the branch turned out to be a spatula. March 11th A tiny, tiny house on purple wheels appeared on the edge of the forest near the town of Mocha late one moonless night. Its occupant had just enough room in her tiny home to turn around, find her bed and bake. And bake she did. Pastries were her forte, but her specialty was Caramel Twinkies. The discontented towns people began to come daily for her baking but stayed to talk of their pain, joy and secrets. The occupant was a good listener. She never spoke of herself except to the child, Alisha, who always wore purple and visited daily. Alisha was a good listener too. As time went on the townspeople became more content and happily chunky. Alisha grew into a confident young woman and bravely began to wear green with her purple. The occupant continued to bake and bake. She handled her utensils with skill and aplomb, whirling and twirling them to mold the ingredients according to her will. There was a pine tree perfectly shaped like a Christmas tree in the side yard next to the tiny house. The occupant would hang sweets on the tree on holidays, birthdays and dreary days. The townspeople praised her tree and its generosity. The pastries were made with love so, of course, the people became deliciously loving, kind and grateful. One early misty morning everyone came as a community to visit. But… everything had disappeared! No tiny house, no purple wheels, no pastries, no Caramel Twinkies, no occupant. The townspeople began to doubt in themselves. Was all this sweetness, joy and communion real? Was there really a tiny house and an occupant? Were we really changed? Then, Alisha began to giggle and pointed at something hanging on the pine tree shaped like a Christmas tree. (Wait for it!) The thing hanging from the branch turned out to be a spatula! Moral of the story: just listen (or always know where your spatula is.) Love, keep 'em coming, Angie.
Ruth Witte Trees are miraculous. From a tiny seed comes a beautiful tree filled with nourishing fruit for countless people. A tree is filled with life’s force, from the change of seasons to the birds warbling and flitting about raising babies. The squirrels scamper amongst the branches, and the cat keeps a watchful eye on its world. But the children! What child can resist being in a tree, climbing, swinging, sitting among the branches with a good book, or having a heart-to-heart with a dear friend while the others scurry about below looking for them? The trees in our backyard were filled with the children in our neighborhood. My heart leaped into my throat and stayed there for years once my eldest was five years old and climbed into the nether reaches of the towering spruce outside the kitchen window. Tony built the tree house that encircled the trunk of the beautiful old maple out back. Our young children joined him on the open platform as he built the railings intended to keep them safe. As my children grew, they added wooden rungs up the trunk to ascend further into their leafy haven. Once, in their explorations of the vicinity, the neighborhood flock of preteens came across an enormous pulley and rope that had been cast aside. In a brilliant moment of recklessness, they disappeared into the tree’s branches to install the pulley far above the tree house. They reasoned that one could jump off the railing while holding onto one end of the rope while the other went flying up deep into the leafy canopy with a child from the ground attached to it. It was astonishing. Life in our backyard became more sedate as our children grew and moved on. The tree house was finally removed, though the rungs remain. The descendants of those birds and squirrels of so long ago, along with another new flock of kids, carrying the tradition of raising the young amongst the very branches that held our children. I think about trees a lot. I have a very dear friend who talks to trees. She converses with them. Being open to this possibility, I started hanging out more with the trees off our deck, watching, listening quietly, and paying attention. The usual whispers in the rustling leaves, the flocks of birds resting in their branches, a jay calling out the great good fortune of another peanut offering on the deck. Then… We need more trees, not fewer. All of life requires us. My mother is the tree next to your deck. We have so much left to protect. Take care of us, and we will take care of you. We need to be cared for and protected, not hacked down with no thought to what's at stake. Do not let this happen. Yes, that is a chainsaw at your neighbor's tree line This is what my ash tree has been telling me. I have to speak for the trees as our community targets them in a quest for view protection. The tree I communed with is home to the robin family hatched in our dead Christmas wreath last spring. I cannot let the opportunity to speak out pass. I hear the chainsaw in the distance. -RDW2024 Following is an addendum for further entertainment, from a summer learning about trees with Growing Places Kids (2013) You have to grow trees and plant them so they'll get big and kids can climb them. Trees are good for us to go under when it is raining and for playing under and to hide behind. Trees are for making houses so we can stay warm in the winter. The leaves are good for us because they keep us cool when it's too hot and make the wind blow. Ellie, age 3 Trees grow and they die. In the fall, only the leaves die, so the tree can go to sleep in the winter under the blanket made with snow. Trees can die by lightning. They can die from fire, but fire makes pinecones go pop so the seeds go everywhere and a new forest can grow. Sometimes trees get sick. Caterpillars and deer eat trees. Sometimes they get blowed over in a wind storm. When trees are really REALLY dead, they turn into dirt.. By Ivan and Greg, ages 4 & 6. Deer need trees so they can live in shade and not be so hot. In the winter, they go under the trees so the ice doesn't make them freeze. They eat the rotten apples and the buds when there is too much snow to eat the grass. They shake the tree with their antlers to get the apples and buds out. Trees make oxygen so we can breathe. They make paper, and paper is good for drawing.-Greg Y., age 6 Animals need trees. Birds need trees to build their nests. Birds can eat the seeds and bugs and caterpillars that live in the trees. The bird flies into the tree to be safe from the cat. If it's really super super sunny, the trees can block the sun so the birds don't get too hot. Pine trees protect the birds in the winter from the ice and snow. Aynesley B., age 5 How to grow a tree. First, you find a seed on the ground or in a piece of fruit and you plant it. You dig a little hole and bury the seed. The seed needs sun and to be watered. You have to weed it so the plant can grow. You give the tree a couple of months, and it starts to grow. But only if you keep watering it. If you water it too much, it will drown. In the spring a cherry tree is covered in flowers, and they turn into cherries, and we eat them and in the middle, there is a little seed that we can plant and grow more cherries.- Abbie B., age 7 The roots are straws for a tree so they can drink the water up to the leaves and the little light green leaves can grow bigger and turn dark green. Leaves have veins. The water goes up the trunk and into the branches and twigs and veins and leaves.. If there isn't enough water the tree will die.- Abbie B., age 7 Squirrels need tree holes so they can sleep. They makes nests in the branches out of sticks and leaves. In the summer the nest is hiding in the leaves, and in the winter it looks like a big pile of leaves in the branches. Squirrels like to eat the nuts that grow in a tree. They like to play in the trees too. They run and chase each other and jump between the trees. They hide from animals that want to eat them and from big people.- Ivan, age 4 Food grows on trees. People like to eat the fruit that grows in trees, like apples and peaches and oranges and cherries and lemons and bananas. We like to put maple syrup on pancakes and that comes from trees too. Squirrels like acorns and caterpillars like the leaves and birds like the berries and bugs that grow in trees! Abbie, age 7, Aynesley age 5, and Ellie, age 3
Jane Wohl It’s Never Too Late to Find a New Career (New York Times, March 12, 2024) Circus clown, trapeze artist, side walk painter, nuclear physicist, brain surgeon, ballet dancer, fireman, letter carrier, grocery bagger, snow plow driver, raker of sand traps….. But would anyone choose in mid-life to become a CPA? Or an investment banker? Elementary school teacher, hunter of mushrooms, Orchid breeder, cat rescuer, seminarian. The surprise of it, the left turn, scales from eyes, and then the sun is brighter, the sky bluer, the waves on the Galilean Sea suddenly tameable. March 13, 2024 Jane E Wohl
Jane Wohl ‘All we can do is pray’: Jerusalem’s Old City on edge as Ramadan nears: The Guardian, March 6, 2024 Sometimes that is all we can do is pray; pray to gods we might no longer believe in, pray to gods we can’t believe in, pray to gods who appear to have abandoned us, who have turned away. who allow children to starve, who allow women to be raped and mutilated. who no longer wake us in the night to wrestle like Jacob. Sometimes all we can do is pray, saying the old words over and over as if incantation still works, as if repetition will give us answers. All we can do is pray, and wonder how the same, unavailable god can do anything but mourn for humans who continue to kill, starve each other, continue to be unable to see the ever-present holy in each other’s eyes. March 7, 2024 Jane E Wohl
Axie Noyes a wings walking dream Mouth with turtles tongue thick and dry Catch first thing round ear and round wet eye This day’s unready come upon undressed, all mussed, and yet unsung Branch twigs and twigs to sky not here nor then old ursa grunts in musty earthen den with suckling sounds of hungry life there in Below thin ice fish twitch in frozen shoals while feathered heads do nod in bracken coves Hush now hush you Don’t wake the hill shut up Your world is sleeping still Axie N. 3/1/24
Axie Noyes
Axie Noyes
Sarah E. Franklin We’re Okay. You? Yesterday was all wind gusts and snow squalls; today it’s blue skies, snow melt and bird calls. Snoodles has found a sunny spot on the green chair and stretched out in it, his left paw dangling. March as we have known Him, is putting us through His paces, but they say in ten years, Vermont will be the new Virginia. Maybe. Meanwhile, no heat or hot water for two days, so I called Chuck, he sent a guy, and now the baseboard heat system gurgles noisily. Good thing. I’m spent after this morning’s Poetry Performance class, still can’t believe how long it took me to master a new poem. I’m a dangling paw. Right Hand is whining to Left about typing just these few lines, so that’s it for now, except to say I’ve seen snow drops opening next to house foundations. April’s not so very far. —Sef, 3/12/‘24
Lynn Wild
Lynn Wild
Lynn Wild
Susan Bull Riley
Susan Bull Riley
Susan Bull Riley
Nancy Gore Ette- Imagining a great grandmother Ette My mental image of Ette’s home, a shtetl in what is now Ukraine, has almost always involved dirt roads and mud. We know they were not rich, so I see her having a dirt floor and not always having chicken for shabbos. I’d like to see her walking to the market in her long skirt. The whinny of horses on market days join the lowing of cows and chickens who flap, cluck and crow. A mix of Yiddish, Ukrainian and Russian languages rise as farmers, merchants and buyers gather to buy, sell and trade. Maybe Ette nods to friends along the way. What, if anything, does she bring to trade? How often does she have money to buy candles, fabric or shoes? There would have been a lot of days that were not eventful, and she likes being remembered, only not for the sadness. There is no official death record for Ette, my great grandmother but my sister discovered witness testimonies that have recently been made public online. There is an account that Ette was killed by sword on Lag-ba-Omer in 1920, and buried in a pit. We know my grandfather ran when he heard shouts, "the cossacks are coming" and that he likely found her dead body when he returned. When she talks to me she makes it plain I need to let this go. You grew up with just the scars of a story, knowing only what he could not say. The day of my murder has reverberated in the lives, echoed in the collective memories of my descendents for long enough. But it was just one day of my life. Here, watch how I sweep the floor. Look how I make this hut a home. Straw on the floor. When the cold turns deadly we bring the goats inside. Potatoes and cabbage cook over the fire. My child, look at him. Those beautiful brown eyes, the way he places his hand in mine. Those same hands held your hands. Those same eyes have loved you. You have felt his love, and I was the first to love him. I find where I've left myself clues, speculations. Her parents were Rachel and Isaac Rabinowitz. We believe she was their only daughter. Some records indicate she was born in 1880 and others 1887. Was she 17 or 24 when she married in 1904, 19 or 26 when she gave birth to my grandfather two years later? The records are inconclusive. We know her husband remarried and had another son, around 1911. What did that mean to Ette, to my grandfather? I scan digital remnants from my laptop. Another narrative from a young survivor of one of Zhaskiv’s pogroms echoes my cousin's story of cossacks cutting off heads. The survivor in the story used the word sabers. There are more horrible and unsettling details. I create a digital file for Ette and add the hand drawn map of the town. The town is larger than I imagined: three synagogues; a mill where sugar is made from beets, a hospital, several stores and the large market square. In 1897 there were 2445 Jews living there. By 1923 there are only 393. Yes, I grew up poor. A small home, dirt floors, many brothers. We didn’t mix with the wealthier families, but we were not alone in being poor. The only girl meant I stayed home while my brothers went to Cheder to study Hebrew. Of course I grumbled about it at the time but I was happier then, before I married, less lonely. I followed my mother and did what she told me. Wash this, chop that, sew there. There was a rhythm that felt like home. Shabbos began at sundown on Fridays and markets, the one in our town known for its cattle, were on Thursdays. Everything we did revolved around these important days. Wednesdays brought traders with animals and carts of treasure. Boys could make money fetching customers for wealthier shop and Inn keepers. The smell of manure, particularly nasty on hot windless days, was the last sensation we had before falling asleep on Wednesday nights and the first thing to greet us when we woke on Thursday mornings. I liked being at the market but father forbade me from going without an acceptable escort at my side. The earlier we sold our goods the sooner we would have the money to buy the things we needed: candles for the shabbos dinner; kerosene for our lamp; and, with much saving once I was on my own, money to pay the photographer that traveled to our village every few months. You have that portrait now. The one of my boy and me. I see you study it. You don’t see anything but a martyred mother when you look at me. But look beyond the photo. I was not perfect. Look at how I scold that precious little boy you will call Zeide. When I’m tired and worried, I yelled. Look at how I hide things, look at how my marriage ended. Look how even my son does not speak of me. But of course he didn’t. Those brutes terrified us all and he did not want to remember what became of me. But he didn’t forget the way I held a broom, the smell of my cooking or the look on my face when I was pleased. He couldn’t tell you these things. He couldn’t tell his children about any of it. The way I swept the floor connected to the way my face looked when I was pleased which, inevitably connected to the day I was killed. I wish you could let go of that day. You have all lived with it far longer than I did. Back on my laptop I try to honor Ette’s wish. I discover YIVO, an institute dedicated to preserving knowledge of East European Jewry. They have a wealth of information. Their searchable encyclopedia. tells me divorce was much more common than I'd thought. There is a silent video of two women, 12 seconds long from 1930. I try to read their faces. I enlarge my browser to 300% to view other photographs and still find it hard to see.
Lucy Morris Bridges, are we better off without them? Happy almost spring. But why do we have to follow a piece of paper that says when spring starts? Today it may be spring, sunny and warm and tomorrow it might be winter. I don't think mother nature reads a calendar. I'm sitting here basking in the late winter sun where a bridge once was. A day that feels more like spring than winter on March 1st 2024 The Boscawen - Canterbury Bridge has interesting history. Here is a cool video that I took of the bridge that is no more on a sunny warm winter day. Tuen up the sound and enjoy https://youtu.be/8q-8Cu4q-Zs?si=g5Nftu6XcEq_22qy I recommend using a device with the best resolution to watch the video. Bridges, they connect one place to another, like a bridge over a river. But if you pause and think about it, you are still connected to the other side, you just might get wet and have an adventure on the way! And without the bridge, there is no cars making noises, pollution into the water and the sun shines on places that would have stayed in the dark.
Lucy Morris
The Magnificent Tree
This huge old tree is in Concord NH just off of North Main St. where 393 ends. But North Main st suddenly turns into this sleep little street. But the road makes you want to go left or right and not down towards the tree that reaches high for the sky. It's a weird intersection as the main road viers off to the left and North Main contiues straight down a sleep roady. And if you turn right you end up on the begining part of a high way.
The Tree, she stands guard just outside the entrance of the Kimball Jenkins School of Art. My rotary club, the Rotary Club of Concord NH meets in the Carriage House, My Toastmasters club met there as well years ago.
Just down the street from the magnificent tree and the art school is the Franklin Pierce House. I just realized I probably should look up Franklin Pierce as there is also a college named after him as well as a town called Franklin.
Back to the big old tree on N. Main St. that can be seen at the end of 393 and North Main. In the summer the leaves are larger than my hand, magnificent and beautiful. It truly is one of the most magnificent and beutiful tree that I have seen. I almost have a poem about to pop about that tree.
Here a couple of links with more info about the Kimball Jenkins Art school, I feel that the tree is very attached and rooted to the school.
History — Kimball Jenkins
About — Kimball Jenkins
Have a wonderful day
Lucy Morris The solid bench at the water front The river you see here is the Merrimack, she runs through Concord and was getting very watery over the last week, There are trees in the water and the water is halfway up the boat launch. And now I understand why the bench has cement legs and it is being held to the ground by a chain to a cement block lol
Link
Audio/Video Gallery
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Sarah Franklin Day 11, M.Mackey, 'Methodist...'
The arts marathon is such a bright spot in March! Thanks for posting the midway gallery, very nice to see what other artists are doing.
Lucy-so joyful to get to know you better. You ae a sweet soul. Love, Angie