Discovering Beauty in Everyday Life

I had an apple tree with a white painted trunk And grass as green as the dog could make it Round patches of it six inches high We hid eggs in the centre where the yellow was. It was a late blooming tree with the sweetest apples Crisp bite, tart smelling, clear sap Cool tongue, red with life. How I loved the summer rain And clothes lines wet with sheets My chest aches for the dazzle of it My gut warms with resonance My throat gasps for the fragrance of it. It was a hard winter the year they took our apple tree Ice and whiteout blizzards Warnings on the radio Skidding spinning tires Sliding downhill sideways. There's  many seasons past by now Since that harsh winter cut us down Yet the roots still lay there buried deep. The other day I came upon a  tucked and folded memory Clouded now and jumbled but I'm certain that I chanced to see A newly budded apple tree  April 2010, North East Reservoir Path 

A recent expedition into the seldom charted reaches of Northern Central Park has revealed an astonishing matter:  Winter has created a fine example of Bonsai cultivation using North Central Park for the cultivation tray. Notice the delicate balance of textures in the rocks, trunks of the trees and the gorgeous monochromatic background. North Central Park Bonsai Tree 

I know a lot more than I’m telling you about the nature of things. How this strafing life chills red blood How the days push each other out of reach How the nightly terrors come too soon. Here the sharp snap of frozen twigs? Hear the frosted grasses crunching? Here the hissing logs burning with sap? Bring up the bricks from the fire, for the night is a chilly one Full of iced buckets and dying embers. Now it’s time to reminisce About the whistle and the wishes Do you recall those candied kisses We, unable to resist In the early morning mist? Young Squirrel in the Early Morning Sun 

The snows of many weeks are gone, and these new Blooming Witch-hazels are sheltering newly revealed snowdrops, covered in snow for their early days Magic Witch-Hazel Trees in Bloom in Central Park (Near 78th, middle)

I’ve a picture In my mind of an ancient room There’s a streak of red dawn through the iron window panes. I sit among the peas and string beans wanting apples. Oh for a red and yellow apple! Sweet, running with sap, running barefoot. I am not a gentle lady I am proud to say it. It could have been a morning peach amid the mourning doves. It could have been a warming bowl with cool milk and hot oats. It could have been the midday sunny harvest dust (and him). I’s green now, green with peas and roasting chickens, I have a picture though. In the attic of my mind (I'm experimenting.......)

Reservoir of Water Fowl and Ice Crossings  Central Park Reservoir in February with Ice, Birds and Grasses 

Time. There is too much time Waiting, Waiting Pinching seconds out of stars Oh how I wish I may and I wish I might Sanctity. There is too much Sanctity Good, Evil Wobbling over the mights and the oughts Through the precious possibilities of days Passing. Oh yes, that too is gone  Forever Last night last year lasting love at last Oh how I wish it would have been that way Cast out, Banned by a rope of circumstance Aching, aching Don’t fall in, do not give in, do not go gently Oh how my face aches and I am the pretty one Space. There is too much space between us Dry Fall Leaves Against a Winter Fence Check this out on Chirbit

Tomorrow....

Once Upon A Time in a nearby field there lived a swarm of summer fireflies. One by one they blinked and blinked away their happy flirty evenings. One day they came upon a lonely Spirit Being, dazed and wandering round and round a nearby diamond-barked tree. “Help, please help," said Spirit Being.  "I've lost my way and I’ve fallen out of favor from the seventh sphere. I have led so many lives already, yet here on earth I shall turn into another living being of flesh and blood and karma.” Just then they heard a high pitched whirring squeal! What desperate straits could bow a string of air with such a cry of agony? Spirit Being and the swarming fireflies rushed and swirled toward the painful cries. Caught! A colony of fireflies was caught in a web of life. Bringing all his strength into his wispy fingers, Spirit Being tore and tore at the web of life. Slowly he untangled one, then two and then a thousand fireflies. “How can we repay you,” aske...

Exploding branches Sizzled and fused by the winter sun Bent and tangled  Barely waiting for spring

It’s a windy day for walks along the river, It’s a harsh day for new buds. It’s a day for worms unthawing in the cold ground. Squish- squash! I saw my first Spring Robin in the greying snow, It was a fat one, fat and full of worms, prancing with the sparrows near the Bush full of wrens. I caught sight of Thimbleful near his covered bridge. He still loves Llufelbmith, still struck dumb and caring, callow in his mossy den. Dry with fall grasses. Old man winter came in bent over in a grey stubbled tree. He thinks he'll live forever, mythic in his hooded menace, ignorant of spring. Never underestimate. I love a snowy print with blurry edges. I love a hint of glitter on a card, I love the smell of summer in the wet muds of spring. Slush- Slush!

It's nearing sundown on 96th Street, and the children have escaped for the night

Trans-ocean-tinental transportation system

A Study in Dapples by Master Chiazza di Colore Dio, February 2011 Medium: Shadow and Sun on Bark

Squiva refused to come out into the snow for a photo today because of a sniffle.  This photo is of a passing squirrel who did not wish to provide a name.

I'm going home, it's too cold to stay here, There's two feet of snow and I've had it, my dear! I said I'd do what? You  must be delirious. Who told  you that? You cannot be serious, You're confused, you're a nut, you're fired! that's what! I'm an artist at heart, not movable part. I'll go out on my own and do better, you'll see. Wait, am I paying you or are you paying me? Beg steal or borrow. we'll do it tomorrow: Work in Progress

An attempt to escape from the dreary disquietudes of everyday life using Public River Transportation was foiled yesterday by the Authorities.  The Would-Be Escapee was traced back to  Lower Manhattan through state-of-the-art Forensic Wake Analysis.  The Suspect was unarmed, undaunted, unrepentant and unprepared.   

I’m a simple one at heart, a traveler looking for the turnoff. I took a bus downtown to catch the train. The ferry stops near where I rested in the doorways years ago, Day after day, looking for the way out, trying to trace out patterns for my days. It’s cold and not a ghost in sight, my ghosts have fled the graveyards; those plotted remnants of my scattered heritage. There are Carolina trails and hollows, Colorado mountain highs The flatland cities, Western Plains, and Arizona deserts, Then there’s County Cork and County Mayo, Venice to be sure. A dusty Southern California town. I’m a California girl at heart: Sunlit, past-less, without a root to stand on. What do I care where I came from? What do I care when I die? But when this dim mirage of days begins to lose its ecstasy I gather up my ghostly entourage and I hold it close to me. SuperBowl Sunday on the Staten Island Ferry

Is it just before we surface or just after?  Time freezes; space adjusts; memory coincides; life cooperates.

Early morning traffic on Ridgeview Way near Crestone, Colorado (February 4, 2011) ©Larry Calloway www.larrycalloway.com/

What a difference a year makes.  These two beautiful linden trees grace the path behind the 97th street playing fields off Fifth Avenue.  No slush, no ice, no construction.   February 3, 2010

Fee fie foe fum bippidy boppidy boo, I wish I may I wish I might there's nothing more I can do! Twiddle dee twiddle die twiddle doe twiddle dum, there's no other way so I guess I'll succumb But I'm numb and I'm glum and it's dumb! So I'm going back home, you can say what you may Call me weak Call me meek but whatever you say I'm still going home for the day

It's early morning, and I fear that I am finally trapped within this newly wet and treacherous snow.  Lost  for hours amid the drifts and following fresh ski tracks, I am circling round and round the frozen reservoir.  There are no signposts to indicate an exit, and my situation is becoming perilous.  Nary a compass, nor a sextant nor a wet and smeary map have I.  I have no instruments at all save my memories from another time, another season, a warm and happy land free of finger-slicing frost and voracious, freezing snow.  Where is the turnoff? Must I rotate forever in this deadly hinterland, etching circle after circle in this endless reservoir rim?   Help!  Help! I have lost my way! Wait!  Is that a shiny, glinting something catching the dim emerging sun?  Is that a hidden beacon made of  tiny coppery orbs?  Did some ancient being take the time to mark the ...

This rare, clandestine photo was taken this morning in the Sabarsky Cafe in New York. This is the first photo taken in several years of the elegant Russian Princess Lady Jane.  It has been rumored for months that Lady Jane had purchased a home in Manhattan.  Jane the Grand, a part descendent of Elizabeth, Empress of All Russia (1741-1761)