paintings by Susan Seddon Boulet, ATCs by Kerry.
Quotes, top to bottom, say:
Dream without limitation - claim your freedom (greeting card)
There is no old age. There is, as there always was, just you. (Carol Matthew)
Don’t compromise yourself - you’re all you’ve got. (Janis Joplin)
Cactus Flower
Changing Colors
—————————————-
Here are two of Genece’s digital paintings that I framed in stained glass. Kerry
(The painting is a print by Susan Seddon Boulet)
A web of weird is cast –
Three sisters weave the wick:
Clothos, who spins the thread of human life,
Lachesis, who determines the length,
And Atropos, who cuts the thread of the quick.
Twisting raw fibers,
They form a cocoon,
Over and under, around and through:
They proclaim my fate and raise an alarm:
A mortal soul is born!
Mine is a cloth torn from the loom
As the spirits whirl and dance,
Chortling with glee.
Random misery is my lot –
I cannot escape the gods’ own curse.
I dwell in a cloud of blackness,
My innocence plucked from my youth.
Cancer of sorrow sprouts like a fungus
In the dank undergrowth of my mind.
Tangled, ensnared, choked by the ropes,
I claw at the garrote and pray,
“Great Norns, transform me!
Let me become uroboros,
Declaring, like the Scots queen,
‘In my end is my beginning.’”
Kerry Vincent © 1992
* * * * * * *
Only a name. Only a name and a piece of cloth. Only a name and a piece of cloth to remember someone who lived and loved, someone who died of HIV-AIDS.
This is the second time I will view a Names Project AIDS Memorial Quilt exhibit. I take a deep breath and begin the slow walk around the huge gymnasium. Bright panels of leather and lame’, denim and sequins, hand-blocked letters remind me that persons with AIDS are more than Center for Disease Control statistics: each one has a name and a personality and someone who will miss them.
I recognize Ryan White’s name, but the panel that strikes me most displays simple yellow letters on black felt. It says, “My name is Duane. I was born in 1964. I was diagnosed with AIDS in 1987. By the time you read this, I will be dead.”
A square of canvas and markers are provided so viewers can sign a quilt panel. I see the name of someone I knew, Helena Henry Hatch, a fellow volunteer. I went to her funeral. Always dedicated to education and prevention, Helena requested that condoms be distributed for free after her funeral service.
I write, “You teach me to honor the present.”
Someone else has written, “Love is never wrong,” and “Love is not in vain.”
My friend Jerry says hello and shows me the panel he sewed for his buddy Larry. I give Jerry a hug and tell him I love him. Jerry is caring, creative, talented, intelligent, he knew Janis Joplin during the original Summer of Love, and he is HIV +. I don’t want to lose Jerry, too. Ever the caregiver, he hands me a tissue.
I tell Jerry, “You will always be more than just a number, just a name on a piece of cloth,”
He kisses my forehead and thanks me for coming to honor his friends.
* * * * * * * *
AUTHOR’S NOTE:
I wrote this piece about 15 years ago. Jerry died in 1999. I made his panel for the Names memorial quilt.
Kerry
By Kerry Vincent © 2008
Josh really didn’t want to waste an afternoon driving out to the country, but Amy begged him to, and he really liked Amy.
“We don’t have to stay very long, Josh, just enough to set up Aunt Lou’s new computer. You can set up a workstation in your sleep,” Amy reminded him.
“OK. As long as she doesn’t make us stay for dinner or something like that. You know how lonely old ladies are – they just want to talk you to death,” Josh grumbled.
“In and out, I promise,” Amy said.
They turned down the gravel road that led to Aunt Lou’s log cabin. Athena, a yellow lab, ran out to greet them, barking like crazy. Isis, a calico cat sleeping on the porch, barely looked up at the visitors. The young people got out and walked up to the porch, dodging homemade wind chimes and ducking under low-hanging baskets of pansies.
Amy knocked on the front door, which was painted turquoise and coral. “Aunt Lou loves the desert look,” Amy explained.
“I can tell,” Josh said, looking at a bleached cow skull nailed above the mailbox. “This is kind of creepy.”
“Oh, Josh, she’s just a harmless little old lady. She probably just got a computer so she can see pictures of the grandkids or shop QVC online. Just get the machine set up, and we can get back in time to watch American Idol.”
Aunt Lou welcomed them. “Hello, Amy, and this must be your young man, Josh…Come in, come in…Can I get you some tea? Juice? Coca-Cola?”
“Just water is fine, Aunt Lou,” Amy said.
“Alright. The computer’s in there, on the dining room table. Take a look,” said Aunt Lou, and trotted off to the kitchen. She came back with three glasses of ice water and a plate of gingersnaps.
Josh was impressed with the hardware, the deluxe laser printer, although he thought so much memory would be a waste for Aunt Lou – she didn’t even play video games. She had a nice set up. He clicked on the Control Panel, made some adjustments, tested the Internet connection, plugged in some wires, and in less than 15 minutes, he announced, “You’re good to go. Want me to bookmark some Favorites for you or anything?”
“Oh, no, dear, I think I can figure that out myself. As long as I can get to my email and the Internet, I can take it from there. I want to get in touch with some of my retired teacher friends. They can walk me through if I get stuck.”
“Sweet,” Josh said.
“I suppose you young people have better things to do than sit with an old gal like me,” Aunt Lou said. “Run along now. I’ll be fine.”
“I worry about you getting bored out here,” said Amy.
“I’m fine – and now I can write my friends emails – thanks to you! Don’t worry about me. My life may not seem exciting to you, but I’m happy,” Aunt Lou said.
“Well, then, if you’re OK, I guess we’ll take off. Good-bye, now….” Amy and Josh went to the car and drove off.
“Do you think Aunt Lou gets lonely, living out there in the sticks all by herself?” Josh asked.
“I dunno – she never complains,” Amy said. “She’s got her hobbies, her painting and crocheting, and now she can email her old school cronies if she gets too bored. I guess when you get old, you slow down, and don’t need much excitement anymore.”
Back at the cabin, Aunt Lou had the Internet fired up, ready to surf. She laughed out loud and said, “Look out, Lemuria, here I come!”
Trembling at my threshold,
I dare to discover what lies behind the door,
The tightly-shut, but unlocked door.
Opening it, I see
My psyche in shambles.
I sigh and say,
“Where do I begin?”
The floor is littered with
The dust of illusions,
Shattered shards of time,
Remnants of lost dreams,
Tufts of hair pulled out in battles,
The wood stained with tears and blood.
“I must clean up this mess, but how?”
I search shy corners
For a soul-sweeping broom,
Finding only a small whisk broom.
I use it to form a tiny dust pile,
Creating a bit of order out of chaos,
Already perspiring, though my work has just begun.
Soon I feel weak, worn, and weary,
Unable to fathom how I will dump
All the dirt I have gathered so far.
“I don’t need all the answers at once!”
I remind myself.
My job, for now, for today,
Is merely to sweep,
Evenly, carefully,
One short stroke at a time.
One small square at a time.
Eventually I make a clean sweep,
The floor looks great!
I smile, straighten my sore back,
Put my hand on my hip proudly, and boast,
“Look at what I accomplished!”
I step and glide and perform on my polished floor,
Then sit, and rest, a sip some tea, satisfied at last.
Until, naturally,
More dust and dirt appear.
I get my broom and begin again,
Sweeping, sweeping,
An ancient ritual against
An eternal enemy.
By Kerry Vincent
© 1993
The cylinder spins;
The pattern changes.
Myriad bits of broken glass,
Fragile shattered dreams,
Colors bright and dark,
Opaque and clear,
Ever-shifting pieces,
Ever-changing connections.
Lovely, like rose windows,
Or surreal, like Man Ray’s nightmares.
But then, when you least expect it,
Some unseen hand twists the cap,
And the cylinder spins again.
By Kerry Vincent © 1990
“Gramma, how can you just sit there and embroider all the time?” asked 7-year-old Ainsley.
“It’s relaxing,” answered Irma, aged 73.
“Don’t you get bored, just sitting still for so long?” Ainsley’s little brother Drummond wanted to know.
“Why, no, dears, I’m not bored at all! I just let my mind wander, and I follow it wherever it goes. I have so many memories to choose from!”
“You mean you’re not just thinking about sewing?”
“No, this is just my cover!” whispered Irma, winking. “What I’m really thinking about is the time I saw the fairies!”
“You saw real live fairies?” asked Ainsley, her eyes wide with wonder.
“Mom says not to fib,” Drummond challenged.
“Oh, but I did see fairies, down by the barn! They were dancing in a ring in the meadow, to wonderful music, tinkly bells, tiny harps, and little flutes! The lady fairies had wings just like butterflies, and they had tiny pointed ears, flowing hair, shiny, shimmering gowns, and they were only 6 inches tall!”
“Could they fly?”
“Of course they could fly! A boy fairy flew right up to me and asked me to dance, but I was afraid I might crush them underfoot, so I said I just wanted to watch.”
“How many fairies did you see, Gramma?”
“Oh, lots and lots, children! They flew all around, up and down, chasing each other, playing tag and hide-n-seek!”
“Did the girl fairies look like little princesses?” Ainsley asked.
“Oh, yes, and the lads were small, but very handsome.”
“Were they good fairies or bad fairies?”
“They were tricksey, but I knew how to stay out of trouble! They asked me to eat fairy cake and drink nectar, but I didn’t. I knew better, because I had read all the fairy tales. If I had eaten fairy food, I would have been lost to the land of fairies forever…I would never have met your grandfather, and or had your mother, and you would have never been born…”
“Really?” asked Ainsley and Drummond.
“Really. But we’re all here together now, so we can be a happy family,” Irma said, and went back to her sewing. She jabbed the needle in the cloth and pricked her index finger. Bright red blood started to flow.
“We’ll get you a Band-Aid, Gramma,” the children said, and ran off.
“Thank you, my dears,” said Irma. She was glad to be alone for a few moments…She didn’t want them to see the tears in her eyes, as she remembered what really happened down by the barn, when she was small. She had been whipped until red welts rose on her legs, and whipped some more, until she repeated after her father, “Fairies aren’t real.”
Irma preferred her version, where she saw the fairies and they played happily together. She hoped her grandchildren believed in fairies. Imagination, like bright embroidery floss, adds so much color to life!
By Kerry Vincent © 1994
When I am an old cat…
I shall eat only salmon mousse
And cough up hairballs in front of guests.
I shall bathe before the company
And lick between my toes while they watch.
I shall run when they try to pet me
And miss the litter box on purpose
When my human comes home late.
I shall refuse to eat dry kibbles
And hold out for canned fish
So I can whisker-kiss with tuna breath.
I shall look offended when pushed off
Of paperwork or my favorite chair,
And I will ignore being scolded
For leaving tongue grooves in the butter.
But for now I must not dig in house plants
And knock down knick-knacks too often.
I must not nip the children too hard
Or growl too much at the vet.
I must be purr-fect and pretty
And always adorable.
Still every now and then
I must hiss at the dog
And hide when I am called
And spit out my medicine
And act bored with my kitty toys
So my human will not be too surprised
When I become an old and finicky cat.
By Kerry Vincent © 2003
Not sure if this is what to do or how to do it, but here’s my first attempt at making artist trading cards. I had fun! An extra “Clevah girl” to the first one who guesses the background material for the green card (which says “Simplify everything” - hard to read on this scan.) Kerry
this glass, this green glass, this blue glass,
this teal glass, even this pale purple glass,
this glass looks so cool, so calm, so serene,
but that is only because it is jazz glass:
it hides its past oh so well
so all you see is the cool.
this glass was not always cool and flat -
once it was burning hot, fluid, streaming,
molten like lava spilling from a volcano,
this glass is sand and ash that has paid its dues.
It has survived the fiery furnace,
But like a phoenix,
It has risen from the ashes to be reborn.
This glass is jazz glass –
It has paid the price,
It has counted the cost,
But it chooses to be transformed,
To groove on forevermore:
Behold the birth of cool!
By Kerry Vincent © 2008
by E. A. Poetica (a.k.a. kvwordsmith)
Once upon a mid-day boring, while I net-surfed, work ignoring,
Hoping for some inspiration…
While I waited, nearly napping, suddenly the keys were tapping,
My fingers the muse was slapping, slapping at my keyboard.
“Get busy, you, write some more,
You can do it, write some more….”
“Like Anita Marie, you could dis-member
Ghosts and their hunters, spilling blood upon the floor,
Crying out in their sorrow, nevermore be a tomorrow,
Load the corpses in a red death wheelbarrow,
Dump them at Anita’s Owl Creek Bridge,
Over there, beyond the dark cyber ridge.
“Or like Lori print some screens, mandalas both blue and green,
Goddess and flowers, frolic in the magick bowers,
Colors spinning like morning prayer flags,
Blessing the green earth and the Soul Food hags.”
(Older women, but not witches
A little sassy, not really *itches,
Just e-wenches on a creative ride!
We kiss the Muse, & try to stay on her good side!)
Presently my soul grew stronger, hesitating then no longer,
“Oh dear Muse, truly your forgiveness I implore,
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly set the keys to tapping at my keyboard,
I didn’t know it was you – please don’t be sore.”
I listened for her voice – only cyber silence, nothing more.
Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “Le Enchanteur?”
This I whispered, but an echo murmured back the words, “I am Le Enchanteur!” -
There I sat at computer table, wondering, doubting, that I was able,
Could I create each day, and my creativity explore,
Could I earn my raven wings, and flap some more?
“Yes, you can do it, always learning, learning forevermore,
Create and share and post and comment – creativity galore!”
She encourages her flock of ravens, our Le Enchanteur!
“You can do it, write some more….”
* I would have included more foodies but got interrupted by my day job…Kerry)
(inspired by the pure, elegant, simplicity of glass - and other simple pleasures)
10 Simple Pleasures
(by Kerry Vincent - (c) 200 
A sleeping cat
sunlight through stained glass
a cup of strong tea
wind rippling the water
sweet scent of evening-blooming flowers
moonlight through the trees
a handful of extra ink pens
a glut of good books to read
a friend you can talk to
a kiss goodnight
In Praise of Blue
by Kerry Vincent (c) 2008
Glorious blues,
those luscious hues:
Sweet cerulean,
sensuous saffire,
wistful wisteria,
delightful delphium,
precious Prussian,
mysterious marine,
calming cobalt,
alluring azure,
inviting indigo,
lovely lapis lazuli,
pale morning sky:
In my best dreams
I always dream in blue.
Authenticated by le Enchanteur
Find some lively prompts here on the Pythian Games page. All ideas and suggestions will be gratefully received.
Heather Blakey
Lori
Anita Marie
imogen88
gwenguin1
Chefleur
traveller2006
kvwordsmith
gailkav
cronelogical
shewolfy728
espirit07
dcevaal
amazon3
Raven
thalia
woodnymph
porchsitter
shelbloom
thecricketonthehearth
laralorelei
spacemonkey1996
Jill
Alexis
