Tree and Earth

Posted on April 23, 2014 by noellevignola Standard 4

Dead tree on the bank of the South Platte River: Photo by Noelle

And the trunk said “I am alone here. My branches are dead and gone. My many roots are withered or taken by beetles. My leaves have blown far in the wind. No life moves in my bark, accept that which feeds upon me.”

And the earth said, “Come to me. For you have fed me with your leaves and opened me with your roots. You have held me to this bank, for surely the rain would have sent me to the river. Be at peace, my old friend and sink into my soil. Tell me of your years in the sun. For that story given, I will trade of how water rises to the moon.”

Pressed Leaf: Photo Poem 38

Posted on April 22, 2014 by noellevignola Standard 10

Trampled leaf, Green Mountain Trail: Photo by Noelle

Look closely. Sometimes the most beautiful things lie underfoot. Stranger still, it is often in darkness that our real beauty is exposed.

In Stone

Posted on April 21, 2014 by noellevignola Standard Reply

Stone at Roxborough: Photo by Noelle

Veins run deep. Pockets of distortion, pits and sticks. A landscape cracked and disturbed, stained and bleached from the sun. Colors soft, contrast drifting into shade. Solid, firm, reliable as an East wind. In stone a story I hear with my fingers.

Stone and Sky

Posted on April 20, 2014 by noellevignola Standard 4

Stone and Sky: Photo by Noelle

Stone and tree
Earth and sky

Balance

Erosion

Posted on April 18, 2014 by noellevignola Standard Reply

Red rock erosion: Photo by Noelle

Crumbled
Water first,
Then wind erodes
My surfaces, going
Flecked off or tumbled down
As sand piles slowly at my feet

Spring Snow

Posted on April 14, 2014 by noellevignola Standard 2

Snow at Raccoon Creek: photography by Noelle

Snow on spring blossoms and turns the sky in shades of gray. The yellows and greens are gone today while slate and shake burrow beneath thick robes of white. Silence fills the afternoon where birds had been singing only yesterday. No mowers out for lawns and the garden gloves are in their buckets. Huddled in the house the quiet pulls up last year’s losses and leaves them in the compost for the flower beds yet to be turned. It should be a sadness that tugs in the silence, as my heart was hungry for the trail. Instead, in blankets of tartan red I absorb a last winter’s charm. In the dark afternoon blooms my peace.

Continent of Mud: Photo Poem 37

Posted on April 10, 2014 by noellevignola Standard 12

A story in mud: Photo by Noelle

When I was young everything had to have order. I liked symmetry and balance. If there was a block of blue on the left, than there must be a block of blue on the right. A proper picture of my family home had a sun and green grass. Beauty was related to this curious and predictable pattern of things. I have left that land and wandered into a story of randomness and chaos. What completely lacks symmetry and order possesses the most exquisite beauty to me. A sense of inner balance discovered that clearly was lacking when my outer world was perfectly planned.

Mud over flowers. I am deeply happy here.

The Wood

Posted on April 8, 2014 by noellevignola Standard Reply

Path into a wood: Photo by Noelle

“I drank the silence of God from a spring in the woods.” Georg Trakl

Jockeys: Flash Non-Fiction

Posted on April 7, 2014 by noellevignola Standard 3

Image pulled from The Mind Unleashed Facebook page

The deep secret of the divorce. I stole a pair of my exes jockey shorts. The ones that are actually like shorts. Gray cotton soft, gentle waist band and my ass looks great in them. Even the flap in the front seems to flatten my belly. I love that flap. Like the secret door to a magical mystery tour. I wear them to bed or dance Zumba topless around the house. The naughtiness is in the theft and that they’re the wrong sex for my wide hip need. My friend thinks it’s odd, but I challenge she simply lacks the courage to step out of the feminine box. We tell men to find some estrogen, well I dig the testosterone rush when I slide them on. Sexy and charged is what they give my lazy Sunday’s reading the paper.

They remind me of him, in the way he liked my style. My need to be only me. For many reasons, I needed to let him go, but his jockeys still belong to me. It’s the part of the story of us that still lives in my jeans.

(Work in progress from The Writer’s Church in Boulder. Hosted by Marj Hahne and inspired by “Pink Pantsuit” by Nancy Simpson)