March Arts Marathon:
March Arts Marathon 2021 Midway Gallery
Click here to view the March Arts Marathon Final Gallery
Art work, writing or music not to be reproduced without the artist’s, writer’s or composer’s permission.
Visual Gallery
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Writing Gallery
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Jane E. Wohl Brattleboro, VT 04301 March 4, 2021 Four Snugged in between the primes of three and five, four stands on sturdy legs like a table or that antique chair in my grandmother’s living room, the one with the arm like a writing desk, the one beside the window facing the garden. It doesn’t rock, there’s no wobble. Each leg is identical to the others, turned precisely the carpenter’s lathe, there’s no hover in space. With four, we never want to leap off an edge, launch suddenly into open air.
Jane E. Wohl Brattleboro, VT 04301 March 5, 2021 Five Just before sleep, I am reviewing the circle of fifths in my head, counting white keys and black, and I get stuck after the key of F, and do not remember what comes next. It shouldn’t be this hard, but without the keyboard in front of me, apparently it is. Theory tells us that the “open fifth” is forbidden, for some reasons that I have never been able to understand since composers defy this convention all the time. As a young violinist, I had trouble tuning my instrument. My mother would say, “Just listen, you can hear the hollow sound of the open fifth.” Eventually, I learned to hear it. It’s not really hollow, what it is is just incomplete. Listen, again, listen, the D and the A played together need the F# in between, to fill out the chord. My sisters sit at the piano, singing together. The youngest looks up at my father and says, “I’m harmony,” and smiles at the sound.
Jane E. Wohl Brattleboro, VT 04301 March 7, 2021 Seven Traditions tells us that Mary Magdalene is borne upward to the sky everyday by seven angels. From her cave in Southern France, she is visited constantly by angels. Are they winged, these beings, white, pure or do we mistake these other beings for angels? Are we surrounded by them, in the grocery store, the gym, sweaty and strong, angels? What if these beings wear their skin in shades of brown, sun-loved, sweat shirted angels? What is the difference between thought and being? Is it her thoughts that become her angels? Everyday we are borne upward, above the trees, everyday we see them everywhere, and know they are angels.
Caroline Tavelli-Abar March 9th. 2021 Digital Drawing In an endless loop Heart strings, drums and saxophones Bring on the old blues Watery eyes in a palette of indigo Turn whiskey sour blues Cerulean skies Now far up from the bayous Mountain side all blues A Universal Tune sung in deep grieving cords Shades in today’s blues At Infinite depths Cobalt and crimsons ring in this fair night time blues Finally the blues! Stars arrive in waves sail to Freedom on the blues
Caroline Tavelli-Abar March 6th. 2021 Digital Drawing March yields a moment just at twilight, when spring is announced in the dim. It is a time when hope holds hands, hearts unfold, and piles of ice glow wild.
Caroline Tavelli-Abar March 4th 2021 Digital Drawing Mind unravels wise pearls. Quietly as conch shells spiral, madness grows. Night sinks soul. At dawn the Apex out of control. Giant waves over each grain roll, as brain on overdrive struggles to center, see, and be. In comes Poetry as Remedy. Precision tool counts. Calming Sea.
Margaret Blanchard Return to the Keys My birth was an immigration from a place I can’t remember To a country whose language I’d yet to learn. Are we refugees to nowhere when we die? Or emissaries to everywhere? As I cycle back to my birth, bounded by the embrace of blue, I do know that even in this one life, I’ve been reborn over and over Into wider and wider worlds, and I believe that as I shrink back Into this textured nut of my own body, this energy of me Will somehow linger. . . stay? return? In an ancient graveyard on an island protected by both roots And branches of trees, a tombstone reads “Thanks for the gift.” In the womb, in the ocean, in the remembered blue, In the return to green, in the fruit, in the nut In the dolphin, in the heron, in the touch of your hand, In the renewal of friendship, in the sharing of our loves, Thanks for the gifts. She Who Floats
Margaret Blanchard 
Season of Light
The Corsican Sisters We read the Classic Comic as we zig zagged across the country. Later we saw the film. About the twins (separated at birth?) so entwined they felt each other’s pain, even when miles apart, caught up in another life…yet still attached, still tuned to the plights, tunes, demonstrations, vulnerabilities of the other. Miles away, and yet… this connection. “Irish twins” some have called us, born 13 months apart—from the last (29) of the year to the very beginning of the next (8), between the last of the month of December (me) to the very beginning of the new year, January 8 (you). And so we remain connected – even when heartbroken, distracted, or just plain tired out. We feel each other’s pain, yes. but being separate individuals, unique in distinct ways, our differences enhance our choices, and enjoyment of sharing. So even though we do not share the same prognosis, we do share the suffering, we still can empathize. This recognition makes life more interesting and aging, a good deal more bearable.
Season of Dark
Margaret Blanchard Courage Comes in Small Packages A squirrel scampers across the road which bisects his ancestral route to acorn stores— only to find himself halfway across with one machine roaring up behind him, another bearing down upon him. What can he do? He spins in place, like a top, on the traffic-fevered white line, he spins on one paw, he pauses, he dances between the passing cars as they drive by. Next in line, I slow down to gaze at his amazing acrobatics, exhale as he dashes to safety. The chickadee with her pithy body, lucid markings, lively songs chirps through frost and ice, local resident all year long, moved not by ancient flight plans, nests in harshest weather, here when migrating birds arrive, here when they fly away, reminds me daily of our friendship with the winged. Wondering how she endures, my soul grows feathers, grasps why we must listen with care to the music of our birds. Small packages, small messages about how to survive. Spin when you need to. Stay if you can.
Humingbird
R.D. Eno MARCH 1 The sea says: Why did Hope bring you to me? Did you suppose I would part my waters for you? Don’t believe everything you read and don’t bother to plead. I am not an ear. I am a mouth with mouths to feed. The mountains say: Hope has deceived you again. I leap for no one despite rumors to the contrary. Save your breath. I have nothing to do with justice. Speak to my cliffs they can only echo your sorrows and give back your griefs. The sky says: Did you hope to appeal up here? I’m nothing but a blue illusion of hereness an oubliette for prayers and petitions venting to the end of ever where never begins all over again. Say what you like, she replied I’ll go on burning
R.D. Eno CASTAWAY After the wave withdrew like a shroud from a corpse and for the first time we grasped the calamity – scythed columns – rubbled porticos – our canon scattered – our haunts in ruins – the world we mapped our lives on gone, gone forever – we came to the shore to mourn the loss of our everyday dream when you staggered up from the sand bedraggled and half-drowned blessing the tide that brought you to this new-harrowed land.
R.D. Eno THE RUSSIAN TEA ROOM My cousin Lillian wore silk scarves to hide her wattle, and dined at the Russian Tea Room on blinis and vodka martinis – very dry; she brought me once as a family obligation. I was not amusing; rather, awed by an atmosphere of culture – very high. She was not amusing; rather, bored by her paisley-shirted clueless teen-age squire. Mention was made of clients – Stravinsky, Martha Graham, Nureyev, Isaac Stern – her gilded roster recounted in that ambience as if to shame my inattention to their sunset luster. The sotto voce at the next banquette, the waiter’s stealth, the dim twilight milieu it strikes me now seem more appropriate to funerals than lunch. Somehow I knew I was only there to remember. So I’ve put down this vague impression of that afternoon when I was called to witness. Our duties done, Lillian ordered another martini and sent me home.
Alix Lindenbaum "If I was a Limerick"
Alix Lindenbaum "Big Hugs"Global Pandemic People walking down the street turn the other way My heart wants to hug My mind races with restraint Towards the finish line
Alix Lindenbaum The Pisces Portal My third eye rises with the moon and sun- A cosmic staring contest has begun. Don’t wanna blink, so I don’t miss a thing- picking up the fallen scraps of blind synchronicity. Kissed by the sky, I heard a red wing blackbird sing; Embraced by the clouds, an angel told me that means Spring. Lost jigsaw pieces creep out from the woodworks, filling voids I could not see. Following intuition, to which I’d rather be than falling into ditches of deep dark vacant voices. The Pisces Portal opens and so, We face our choices.
Axie Noyes
Asylum 4 ~3/4/21
Green Mountain Refuge Installment 3
It wasn’t just the liberal atmosphere at the school that got to me. It
was, from the first, the land; it’s history and wildness, and the character of
the people who lived off it, and on it for generations. At the time there were
still foragers quietly wandering the woods of Morgan Hill and Rush
Mountain, with their huge long sacks dragging behind them. Vermont held
remnants of an older, wiser way of living and perceiving the world. True,
many locals had a coolness - a stand-offishness about them. I understood this
wasn’t so much about me being a flatlander as it was about a profound
shyness that’s characteristic of many a Woodchuck. It’s a trait I suffer from
too, and understand well.
Foragers
Where I come up in Maryland, our 25 acre farm was bounded on the
South by 5 miles of wooded plots where a few isolated, humble homes were
tucked. Old trails meandered down to the C&O Canal and Great Falls. This
forest was filled with huge beech trees, oaks, spindly pines and sassafras,
and the immense, ghostly, pillars of ancient American chestnuts.
Now they’re all gone - killed off by something called Ink Disease or
chestnut blight. It came in on imported Chinese chestnut trees in the early
1800s and spread north from Southern Appalachia, about 50 miles a year.
Within a few decades the blight had killed nearly 4 billion Chestnut trees.
Creating what was undoubtedly the greatest ecological disaster the world’s
forests had ever known. The loss of the trees had a cascading effect,
threatening all the wild life and rural economies that counted on them for
their existence. Chestnuts were almost perfect trees: fast growing, rot-
resistant, straight grained. They provided excellent material for furniture,
building and fencing. Their fruit fed multitudes of animals and people. The
trees were at the heart of the forest echo system and human economies for
the entire expanse of the Eastern US.
Chestnut Ghosts
There was an alluring, abandoned goldmine we explored, and cleverly
camouflaged copperhead haunts, and of course the ubiquitous sprawls of
choking poison ivy vines. You had to keep your wits about you in those
woods.To the north of us were about 15 acres of rising, fallow fields skirting
river road where whippoorwills still called of an evening, and bobwhite’s
and mourning doves answered from where they could still find suitable
nesting sites in the open, weedy wastes of overgrown hay fields, just the way
they like it.
I could count the homes on my fingers and toes inside the 25 square
mile area between River and Falls Roads to the north and east, and the
Potomac River in the south, and Swains Lock Road to the west. But the truth
is, I learned, there was an ominous reason for the abandoned and humble
circumstances of many of our neighbors. Once well-run, going concerns had
gone belly up all over Montgomery County before and after the WW2. The
situation forced a sell off of spreads at rockbottom prices. The city gentry
(which I’m sure is how our family was viewed by locals when we first
arrived in 1949, when I was one) were buying out the farmers, and calling
their generational homes, “residences,” and converting their old cattle barns
into more gentile horse stables. We were the interlopers. The world I knew
then, the one that formed me, was in the process of big, longstanding and
devastating changes. It seemed we were all caught up in some kind of a
crazy, invisible whirlwind.
Axie Noyes
Asylum 7
Green Mountain Refuge ~ Installment 5
There was a screened-in sleeping porch on the second floor of our home in
Maryland. They became wide spread additions to homes in the early 1900s as an
essential part of a tuberculosis treatment; later the craze continued as the idea
caught on that fresh air was good for the health of everyone. Anyway, my brothers
and I would move out there as soon as the weather warmed enough; usually some
time in May.
As the youngest, I was sent to bed before the others. It was still light, but I
never really resented that; hearing the distant laughter and conversation going on
below. I looked forward to climbing in and pulling the sheets to my chin. There
was time then to settle, time to drift in and out of consciousness, neither awake nor
asleep, listening to, and watching the world beyond the screens transform from day
to night.
Each evening offered something similar, in different sequences and shades.
Yet there was a recurring theme to it, like a melody played by different instruments
- never exactly the same, yet known. It’s a magical time and space where two
worlds overlap for a few minutes. One finds oneself melting into the fabric of
something - immeasurable.
Listening to the mocking bird’s last inventions of the day. The
whippoorwills disquieting, haunting calls; the bobwhite’s too, starting up. Both
evening singers, repeating and repeating their names, mesmerizing, hypnotizing;
insisting someone - anyone with ears remember and proclaim their place in this
world.
The firefly’s lights would become visible as my eyes slowly shifted to night
vision. I’d wonder lazily if they blink all day, like stars - present, but unseen, or do
they just turn on their lights at night? And the world slowed, and slowed, and
shifted weight. The bats’ squeaks peppered the darkness as they pursued juicy
Junebugs, and multitudes of other creepy-crawly things on the wing, beyond sight. Tree
frogs chimed.
Sometimes it rained and thundered. There were slatted bamboo shades we
lowered. One could still vaguely see through them to the flashes of light capturing
billowing branches, that once glimpsed, danced around and dissolved as after
images behind blinking eyes. And too, at the foot of each bed were waxed canvas
covers that could be pulled up for further shelter. I still associate the musty smell of
that material with wonderful, wild storms.
That sleeping porch provided a space between. A place where one could
actually be in two worlds - neither outside, nor in. In that overlapping space there’s
a third place - unnamable. I’m sure my time there, awake and sleeping, and neither
awake nor asleep, deepened my sense of connection; my relationship to the natural
world; to the consciousness inherent in all living things, and enhanced my stubborn
perception of the definition of home in the land.
Perhaps while I slept tendrils of living Earth energy reached up from below
and fed and sang to me; wordlessly informed me; granted me everything I needed
to survive. Like the dormant chestnuts, still alive below the surface of things;
sleeping, yet awake. In some way that can’t be explained, that nameless
overlapping space filled my consciousness, and unconsciousness, and insisted I
remember, even in my morrow, and be always willing to accept the longing that
never ceases to belong somewhere as deeply as I belonged there and then.
Now, that same energy brings to my consciousness a certainty; a
comprehension that like the bob white, and whippoorwill; the grey fox, and Alec
Holston, and sweet Julep, I too will always have a place in this world. Scan the
field. You’ll find me sheltered and safe under the wings of something warm, and
soft
dark, big,
and very good.Axie Noyes Asylum 10 An image before meA young woman in air over ice One toe pointing down The other trailing high Arms open and in flight A black muff in one hand and four bright buttons down her chest Her skirt swings like a bell Her head tips back Pulling the bow of the leap She smiles This is my mother before she was a mother Before she landed and spun and spun her breath making steam Married once for money under pressure Once for loves sweet love Four children she bore Many gardens made - books written and read And horses trained and adored But always always the longed for ice the flight the leap and the air
Ruth Witte Day # 1Day #7
Tissue Paper Art with Kids I love tissue paper and the broad spectrum of colors that is available for creating gorgeous eye-popping art. Tissue paper comes in bleeding and colorfast varieties. The paper I am using in these pieces is of the bleeding (staining) variety- the colors run when they get wet. Sometimes I use tissue paper as a collage background for a snowman, underwater, or garden/jungle scene, Other times I cut the tissue into 2-inch squares and crumple each piece to use for the fall foliage of a tree, in portrayals of forsythia and other flowers, or any other type of mosaic I’m inspired to make. Crumpled paper rainbows are an excellent project for little ones, especially this time of year. Crumpling bits of tissue paper is tedious and time-consuming, but once three or four-year-olds become involved in this particular activity it is likely to keep them occupied for quite some time, with the added benefit of developing small motor skills. (Note: Show children how to separate the pieces of tissue paper and crumple each singly.) Working with wet tissue paper and glue requires sturdy paper upon which to work. I like using heavy watercolor paper. I mix Elmer’s glue with enough water to make it runny enough to apply with a paintbrush to the base paper. Coating an area of several square inches at a time, kids can set torn bits of tissue paper to overlap on the wet glue. The paper adheres readily to the watered-down glue on the page. You can coax and flatten the bits of tissue with the wet brush, and gently coat the whole page with watered-down glue when it is covered.
Ruth Witte #8 Salt and Wind
Three days ago I intended to make a sprinkled salt night sky, I got a flower garden.
When your art doesn't turn out the way you want it to or thought it would, looking for and finding a different and often more inspired path is magic. I would have preferred to use black paint for the wind art, but the blue is quite lovely and (in my mind) the "trees" become aliens. If there is too much water (more than a thin sheen) on the paper, the salt will dissolve. Likewise if you pick the wet painting up, the paint will run over the salt and the effect is lost. Once the salt is on the paper, don't touch it. Instead, check the painting periodically and watch what happens. Or better yet, pull up a chair and watch the full transformation as the paint dries. After the background is dry and brushed off, a couple of drops of paint or ink can be blown around the paper with a straw, as in "Wind and Rain ". You have to blow hard enough to move the paint but not so hard that your saliva becomes part of the picture. Remember also that blowing too hard will give you a headache. A fun alternative is to use sunset colors, wind paint with black, and attach googly eyes to create "spooks".
Ruth Witte #12 Making the best of a mistake
The image on the left is exactly the outcome I had in mind when I started laying wet tissue paper to create the effect of fire. Loving how a previous tissue paper print had turned out, I decided to again remove the tissue after it dried, therefore leaving the glue out of the water and making the set paper impermanent. It's heartbreaking when you have a beautiful piece of art and you think, if I just do this, it will be even better. I have no idea why the dye didn't transfer as it has in other work. So disappointing.. With limited supplies at hand, I think, "What can I do to fix this?... Maybe if I do this, it will help... Nope... Wish I had access to my other supplies! What can I do instead?... Brush pens!” Drat. This will have to do. Good thing I at least have a photo of the previous rendition!
My intent has been to inspire would-be artists to create beautiful, non-threatening art. I have hoped that someone who sees these is inspired to give it a whirl or to help children to experiment with the possibilities. So much fun, especially when I'm able to remain detached from the out come
Michiko Oishi Haiku 雪の坂転がり探す猫柳 yukinosaka korogarisagasu nekoyanagi snow slope tumbling down to find pussy willows
Michiko Oishi Tanka 掃除して歩いて料理して食べて禅の修行のごとく籠れり Souji shite aruite ryourishite tabete zenno shugyouno gotoku komoreri cleaning the house walking in the woods cooking and eating being at home Zen training
Michiko Oishi Haiku 春雷の轟屋根の雪落つる Shunraino todorokiyaneno yukiotsuru the roaring of spring thunder snow falls from the roof
Susan Reid Ingenious The eight year old And his six year old brother Are going to build A giant mechanical werewolf In a big underground workshop Which they will dig. The werewolf will have wings and wheels A round belly for floating A motor at the back Fake blood will drip from its jaws To scare the daylights out of adults It should be perfect and complete And ready for Halloween When they are In high school They will ask for the expensive stuff For Birthdays and Christmas. They have thought of everything. I am not sure if they will stop climate change Before the werewolf, or after, But I am sure they will have a plan. They’ll raise the money, By I ncreasing allowance and gift rates for parents, Grandparents, aunts and uncles, It’s only fair. They will run the operation Out of that underground workshop Or a treehouse-fort The technology will be Vast, winged and pretty loud. And I have no doubt They will Think of everything,
Susan Reid Strong Arm I used to arm wrestle with the King boys Back in my tomboy days. I was strong, from farm chores, They were bigger, But they were town boys So the contests were pretty even. Our elbows planted on the kitchen table, Hands firmly palm to palm Faces set with the effort, We would strain in a tableau With only a little breathless trash talk. To an observer, Not much seemed to happen. Until one of us would prevail And suddenly press, or be pressed Decisively down, Shaking the table with a rattling thud. At the end the change Always came quickly, utterly. When the angle grew too steep, The elbow slipped The muscles called upon Just didn’t answer. We would do this again and again Until we grew too tired Or laughed too hard To get a grip, Now I sometimes feel As if I am watching such a match As rulers and politicians Strain to hold power Locked in struggle with their own people Pressing against protest, voting science and change. I am hopeful I think I know who will win Although I am not always certain. I do know The grip has been so strong, The opposition so rock hard For so long, That when the sudden shift comes, When the strong arm collapses The world will shake.
Nicola Morris Gainsborough's Broccoli Gainsborough’s Broccoli for Michele, broccoli chef par excellence! Broccoli for trees, mirror scraps for lakes, stones for mountains all on Gainsborough’s table, so he could paint landscapes without getting sunburnt or soaked. I could crumple paper for mountains but I’m not keen on broccoli trees. I’m not keen on broccoli, never met it as a child. Until yesterday I thought it only grew in America. What can replace broccoli for trees? Leeks propped up? How did Gainsborough’s broccoli stand up and did no-one identify the broccoli when his paintings hung in the Royal Academy? Maybe broccoli was emaciated in the 19th century. Maybe I wouldn’t have recognized it. I like to think of him playing with his diorama, moving a stone a little to the left, a broccoli stalk a little forward, creating a odd perfect world to paint our perfect world. All in the comfort of his own hallway, whiskey in hand, easel before him, no cows to disturb him. Except perhaps someone moved his stones, his carved cows disappeared under his youngest’s bed and the Thursday soup tasted of broccoli when money was tight.
Kathryn Davis
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Kathryn Davis
View as Document 
Kathryn Davis
View as Document 
Annie Wattles What I take forward Every morning he slips out of the bed to the kitchen for time alone and quiet and making coffee. He studies Spanish and reads Maureen Dowd finishing any dishes from the last evening in order to start the day over on this new day…today. I have woken but act like I have not. The dogs stay with me also acting as if they are still too are asleep . We wait for the sound of his coming, rounding the corner into the room bringing camaraderie and news. This morning the entrance is exciting. He dances in with hands held high coffee splotching out of the cups with his spinning naked moves. The little dog pops out from the covers, ready. Both dogs start jumping alongside the dancer who is laughing and me too. Out loud profound full body precious laughing. I’m in such good company and I gather up the sweetness of fleeting carry it for as long as it will stay. I drink what's left of my coffee.
Annie Wattles Moment to Moment Waking from a dream in which I am being schooled in murder. In the dream a man told me I was ready and I said OK. Awake I say: Where am I in this? Why me? Why murder? Why OK? Beloved morning windows next to my bed. The wind blows the snow in a way that makes polka dots on the glass. A fabric to wear as a dress when we can go out again. I would order a martini. Would I ever need to murder? Would I ever murder? I need lessons if the answer is yes. What if I were faced with a Pinochet marching Victor Jara to the soccer stadium to cut off his fingers one by one only so he could not play his guitar and sing songs of resistance. My skin is white and there are things I can do because of that without even thinking. Sometimes I hide in my clothes. Not always. I did have a period when I collected old fashioned silk bed jackets. I wore 501 Levis the kind with the button fly. I loved how they fit me and the little silk bed jackets. I was not hiding it was a time when I could take the attention. When summer comes hopefully there will be no one I will have to murder. This is how I take the dream. There is something in me that seats itself in a place that gets a pass. Things can be too easy so that I sit in sloth and bend to the fears of stepping off my comfort. Hang back and mush around. In the dream I learn to be an assassin to this in myself. The thing that needs to die
Angela Grace
March 8th
TIES
Photo #2
I'm the father. I don't need a tie. Their mother made them wear those ties for the picture. She bought them at the local haberdashery, all different colors and styles. I doubt they will ever wear them again. Good for tying up the dogs. Even with the ties on they are fine strapping boys. Their mother named them and I figured I could name the girls but there they are, all boys. The oldest is Jeremy, almost eighteen. He'll be flying the coop come Spring. He's a smart lad but headstrong. Takes after his father. He'll probably head to the next biggest town, Kansas City to find work. He's great at fixing things, especially mechanical stuff. He's a natural, taught himself. I will miss his hand on the farm but a boy's got to do what a boy's got to do. Soon he'll be a man and the captain of his destiny. I wish him luck and love. See, I can be a softie.
Next comes the twins, Jack and Jake, sixteen. They don't look alike but they are two peas in a pod. Always together, kinda exclusive except for their ma. She is partial to them. Spoils 'em. They carry their weight though. I've seen them load a days worth of hay in three hours, the both of them, with no complaining. I remember tucking them in at night when they were small, both in the same bed. They even think alike. I hope they don't fall in love with the same girl.
The youngest at twelve, Joshua, with the short pants on, is a puzzle to me. He's always mooning about. We can't seem to connect and understand each other as much as we'd like to. Last week he was out doing chores and he accidentally locked his mother in the hen house! It was dinner time before we missed her. Where was his head? Off in the clouds somewhere probably, reciting poetry or doing math equations.
And then there's ma. Well, I'll let her speak for herself. I suppose everyone will have something to say about me. Take it with a grain of salt.”
To be continued...
Angela Grace
March 9th
I, being the oldest, Jeremy, am most like my father. I'm a bit taciturn, keep my feelings in check and just strike out with dedication to do the job, whether it is fixing the tractor or comforting my brothers. If there is a job to do, I'm to it with resolve and I usually eventually complete it with success. I can even do this with emotional stuff. One time my brother Jack was climbing over a chain link fence, and he slipped and got hooked up on the spiky top of the fence by his armpit. Jake came running for me yelling there was no way Jack could get himself off and please hurry. I can keep my head about me no matter what and I went a running. Holy smokes, what a bloody mess and lots of screaming with Jack passing out and then being dead weight. I eventually lifted him off with some ripping of flesh. Many stitches later, Jack and Jake were home resting. If one of them gets hurt the other is hurt too. I admit, I was a bit queasy after all of this calmed down. I was grateful I could do the job at hand and think clearly.
Soon I am going to face life in Kansas City without my family and I hope I can keep a clear head and retain my resolve. I seem to be not letting myself get too excited but inside I'm starting to quiver. Life on my own feels at odds with anticipation and fear both present. I see a wide open path of new experiences and feelings and am anxious to get to it and see what the Universe has in store for me. I'll be meeting new people, learning how to deal with others who don't necessarily have my best interest at heart like my family does. I need to be open minded but not naive. I'm pretty young for this type of thinking but that's me and I think it will hold me in good stead. I will miss by brothers and parents terribly and I am grateful for them.
Jack is the oldest by an hour. Poor ma. She had to suffer an hour longer waiting for reluctant Jake. Dad was beside himself. (What a strange phrase.) Of course I am reminded of my stubbornness by Jack when we are mad at each other, which isn't often. We don't argue much because we were womb buddies, so we go way back. Even our names mean the same. Jack and Jake are nicknames for John. That's better than John One and John Two I guess. I suppose if we had to decide who was in charge it would be Jack. I am a little more of a go with the flow kid. For instance when we were four, Joshua was born. Jack was so jealous of the new baby that he tried to hide him in the coal bin one afternoon when ma was in the kitchen. My loyalties were torn but seeing Joshua was not in any real danger and seemed to be enjoying his new surroundings, I just kept an eye on him. Well, don't you know when ma found a smiling Joshua in a coal dust covered blanket all h-e-double l broke loose. Since I was there I got the brunt of it but I said nothing in my defense. Being as close as Jack and I were, he didn't let me suffer for long and confessed. When I hurt, he hurts. When he hurts, I hurt.
Sometimes I have difficulty knowing where I start and where Jake ends. It's like we share our insides and our outsides. We were so connected in ma's belly that I feel like we are still in there. That hour we were separated I missed him. My first feelings of loneliness. Maybe that is why we are together so much. We have felt love and and we have felt loneliness and we choose love.
It's not easy being the youngest in this mostly male family. I'm different too and don't always feel a part of. I love my father and he tries but doesn't understand my “mooning” about. I don't mean to be standoffish but my head is filled with so many things that he might not understand, like poetry, things I've read and just... day dreams. It does cause me problems in school too. Mrs. Triplet, my 6th grade teacher, catches me day dreaming all the time. First I'm doing math problems with my class and next I'm off visualizing what it would be like sailing the rough seas of the Atlantic. Or how do the animals, birds and insects know Spring is coming when the snow still covers the ground? And take my name, Joshua. I understand it is from the Bible. Something about a battle. I wouldn't know how to hurt another person if my life depended on it. My folks are not particularly religious. We do pray before dinner though. It's mostly about being grateful and help us do better. We always include Ma as a blessing.
You're up Ma. To be continued...
Angela Grace
March 10-11
I, Justine, have everything I've ever wanted-someone I could love who loves me, children, a safe, warm home and a purpose in life. When I first met John, hence, all the kids J names, he wasn't the cutest boy I ever dated but something inside me said “grab him!” I was not really interested in college at that time, that's just what I did and I never regretted it. We were married just out of high school, pretty young for what was to come. I wore my mom's wedding dress, John had his brother, Judas, hmm, as best man. So far, so good, right? That's where the fantasy story ends, if there is really ever one. No ones life is untouched.
We had our first baby pretty quickly but she only lived a few minutes. John named her Angel. We mourned together and then laid it to rest. You know the rest of the story with the birth of four rowdy boys. The one thing of Angel's that I kept is a doll sized, pale lace under dress that I keep by our bed so we can be reminded of her loveliness in our lives. The boys had their own life and death experiences. I always said “Not live and learn but learn and live.” When I would send them out into the world for the day I would turn them over to the Universe and then go about my business.
About this picture-you can barely see me hiding back there behind the family. Being controlling I figured I could keep everyone in line if I was in back of the family. I was glaring at Jack because he was poking his brother Jake. But as you see, John refused to wear that pretty red plaid tie I bought him. He's his own man. In no way am I shy and retiring as you might suspect by judging the photo. Notice my slight smile as if I know something no one else knows. Actually, I went back to school to study Agricultural Economics to better our farm lives. I love learning and am planning my next adventure, maybe literature. I deeply care for my family and I believe they love me and my sassy shortcomings.
All and all, this photo tells all if you look underneath. I cherish it because it freezes our full lives for an instant and of course things will always change.
Finis.
The next photo looks like it has the whole fam damily in it!
Photo # 3
Lynn Wild
View as Document 
Lynn Wild
View as Document 
Lynn Wild
View as Document 
Laura Ruth
there is an egg waiting on the line between march and april
Laura Ruth Turning, the end of the day speaks…
These two, as different as the trees they each came from beech and oak on blue and shadowed snow the oak more blunt leathery to the touch the weight that is substance felt sense in palm the other paper thin translucent for the duration ceaseless I bring some of them inside to keep my eye on them
they make no dent in my hand, I would not know they were there if I did not see it with my own eyes their vulnerability mysteriously potent unanswerable turning, the end of the day spoke… the bright light before the change— it is the shock before the loaming the light is everywhere
sudden light that picks up everything fastens fixates for a shattering moment still life with apple and mask this light that is everywhere gathers forces musters up stirs the sound arising from the cedar waxwings haunting, as they gather to witness as the day prepares to go speaks to the hoards harkens they face west hail the turn of day
and the turning and the light is drawing something out of us, all of us to hear the call wake up! attend! and the elements are training us to see the end of the day is speaking:
training us to follow to see the path of light the play of warm and cold, wind and snow, the above and the below emergence and illumination how dare we question what has been given? take it for granted? the end of the day calls out: and we are trained to see to rest in what is this our day sheltered in the dusk held in the night fall which walks slowly, continuously around the globe just as the birdsong at dawn does, matching pace ceaselessly circling we are so held imagine! suspended for just this moment in this place like the sphere of a dandelion seedhead perfect in itself as the breath that will blow it away is deeply drawn in drinking in light we meet in the bones of beauty
the light thickens, deepens enters substance weaves earth and air, warmth and water weaves our hearts into the turning, turns our day into night the end of the day is whispering: sharing secrets
we are being trained to see the blues the yellows, the pale and glowing reds of winter to look into the mirrors to see ourselves in the earth we are being trained to wonder we are being trained to know what is subtle to be supple and see
(and the day says to the onions too far from the ground too long indoors: sprout!
)
and we are being trained to bear witness by the turning of earth of season by what turns within us by the light and the call trained by the speaking day at its turning
Laura Ruth
elements wanting to be with one another
Link
Audio/Video Gallery
View the slides by clicking on the arrows. Jump to a creators audio/video by clicking their name below.
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Susan Reid: The Chickadee and the Sparrow
Audio Only: Video:
Audio Only: Video:
Julia Chafets: Nope
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3 thoughts on “March Arts Marathon 2021 Midway Gallery”
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This is so wonderful. Thank you Ben for figuring out how to post all this fabulous and diverse creativity. I am so happy to be part of this venture for a meaningful cause.
Thank you for posting all this. It has been great to follow Rachel Cogbill and now to see some of what the other artists have been doing.
Thanks to you, I found a place to stay here in Montpellier … despite the cold, I feel the warmth of hospitality and I see the joy of serving with the smile of the Vermonters. Thank you all …to Diane to you artists and to my host family.