Cows on the move

Posted on by Sheila 2 Comments

Years ago we belonged to an organic CSA in rural Maryland. It made deliveries in town, but welcomed visitors to the farm to help with harvesting vegetables and pulling the never-ending weeds. (Which is a much more festive activity when undertaken as a group.) There were also CSA potluck picnics, impromptu soccer games, and memorable fund-raising dessert raffles. I particularly remember a chocolate truffle cake…

On a few occasions I packed not only a sketchbook but paints and canvases. This painting emerged one hot late summer day, and it was a challenge. Cows may look immobile but, let me tell you, they don’t stay in one position for more than a few seconds. My hat goes off to Rosa Bonheur.

CSACows

CakePolkaDotsJudyth

Yahrzeit2George

August

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For this August day, a painting from a North Carolina beach house deck, one bright hot summer afternoon; and a poem.

BeachHousesTrees
The sprinkler twirls.
The summer wanes.
The pavement wears
Popsicle stains.
The playground grass
Is worn to dust.
The weary swings
Creak, creak with rust.
The trees are bored
With being green.
Some people leave
The local scene
And go to seaside
Bungalows
And take off nearly
All their clothes.

—John Updike


Fish

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The pond in the Bishop’s Garden, from a series of paintings at Washington National Cathedral. And a poem.

FishPond550AA
The Name of a Fish
.
If winter is a house then summer is a window
in the bedroom of that house. Sorrow is a river
behind the house and happiness is the name

of a fish who swims downstream. The unborn child
who plays in the fragrant garden is named Mavis:
her red hair is made of future and her sleek feet

are wet with dreams. The cat who naps
in the bedroom has his paws in the sun of summer
and his tail in the moonlight of change. You and I

spend years walking up and down the dusty stairs
of the house. Sometimes we stand in the bedroom
and the cat walks towards us like a message.

Sometimes we pick dandelions from the garden
and watch the white heads blow open
in our hands. We are learning to fish in the river

of sorrow; we are undressing for a swim.

— Faith Shearin

Sea-washed gates

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Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,
With conquering limbs astride from land to land;
Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand
A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand
Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command
The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.
“Keep ancient lands, your storied pomp!” cries she
With silent lips. “Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!”

—Emma Lazarus

In celebration of the birthday of Emma Lazarus (1849-1887) today, I post what is probably her most famous poem, written to help raise funds for the installation of the Statue of Liberty, and which now graces that monument. I had hoped to write a bio as part of the post, but today’s schedule does not allow it, so the bio will have to wait. Please check back in 2011. In the meantime I pair the poem with this watercolor of a tempest-tost morning.

Stormy