Upside Down Kris

Morning Musings Silence upon silence the morning gives me, even though the sun is already high, asking us to look at her. Her rays are not fancy, semi-covered by the waking sky. The morning has. thrown on a a clay colored robe and is rubbing her eyes. The sun has demanded her attention, as does ours.  A pure feather falls to the ground in slow motion...I wonder where it has fallen from. Ah, the traveling from night to day, from sleep to wakefulness. The sun is impatient for the day, while I want it to take its time. The noise and hustle and bustle can wait. It can always wait, in my opinion. There is no reason to rush. Across from mine a balcony is covered in bamboo with a few tufts of green as angles. A woman comes out, confused. She seems to be searching for something her balcony doesn't hold. She slips back through the glass door and disappears.  Left alone, her balcony gives a tropical flare to the space the four buildings share. It is a space of expression that descends into a

 Scar Typography Are your scars pink? Are they white? Are they bright? Are they translucent in the light? Do they reflect the light? What is the typography of your scars? The typography of mine is a mix of fine white lines. Soon other lines will appear: one on my belly, and one on my head celebrating the one already there. Is the typography of my scars beautiful? Is it fascinating because it is mine? Scars thump with memories. They burst through the skin asking to be listened to. Scars are not to be contended with: they are always right because topography is a science, so there is truth to them. Of course, the topography of scars brings out their stories. They are the outlines of scenes we trace with our finger, that we relive through touch. Some scars are relegated to a spot under our hair or shirt...maybe beneath a collar. They only come out at night, and even then we ignore their thin calls. We cover them and then crawl into bed thinking we have erased them. Are you proud of your to

An Angel with Forever Wings It's not that I am fascinated by death, it's just that I'm intrigued by the monuments that we erect for the dead: tombs that lead to the underworld, a funnel with statues falling in, a young girl eternally sleeping in a rocking chair, angels pushing forward mid-air reminding me of superman...   They all have this ethereal air around them, in particular those bathed by daylight. It goes without saying that they seem otherworldly, like a somber superhero, or one that has come to help but is under an oath of silence. Some statues beckon from their quiet place, while others seem to wait patiently. For what? For us to notice them? The spirits of the statues may not be there anymore. Some have risen to our minds, above our heads in flight finding peace. Theirs is the quiet. Theirs is the eternity of glowing molecules, shifting in the light and alighting no where. Theirs is the life/death bend. One moment they sparkle, the next bending back to dust. I t

Cicada Summer My eyes were sealed by sound. The roar of the cicadas had broken my walk and train of thought. The blare was banging on my ears so loudly that I stopped to listen. I was surrounded, and they shouted their power upon me in chorus. There were hundreds–maybe thousands–infusing me with the energy of summer. They seemed to be everywhere, except maybe behind closed doors, and even then I was sure the sound could break through. I stood and absorbed it, feeling hot and restored at the same time. When I opened my eyes, the tree in front of me was full of the translucent shells they had left behind. The cicadas were a very earthly presence, although remained unseen. Were they camouflaged somewhere in the art of the tree? Where had they gone? They had left behind their voices instead of their bodies. The cicadas made such a strong sound together that they had become a shrieking army. They preferred to scream at the heat instead of taking the blame. for their reaction.  And I wondere

  The Beauty Catcher I made a dream catcher in girl scout's camp once. We collected short sticks and wove yarn around them until a very simple and clear web had formed. I had chosen two colors: hot pink for the center with baby bird blue concentric squares surrounding it. Some kids dangled feathers from their dream catchers, but I didn't want them. They just seemed like too much. We also added a few beads here and there as our special touch. I don't remember how we wove them in, but I do remember how they sparkled as I held the dream catcher up to the sun. I was fascinated by what I had created. I wonder what happened to it...I could sure use it now. I think I should make a new one. Now I imagine myself approaching the world with my arms and legs wide. My heart is a pink center while baby blue emanates from my skin. I wait for my hands to finger silk, my ears to vibrate from a tantalizing interval, my eyes to absorb a fluctuation of color, my nose to tingle from a tangy odo