Fragments | Lisachun | Page 2
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Fragments | Lisachun | Page 2

Fragments

By on Mar 27, 2016 in Poems

Fragments   He says that the universe is very wide, very large, as large as Lake Michigan on a rainy day and he wishes his hands were large enough to hold it while he watches opera in an Italian suit and a maroon and beige tie. He wishes that his eyes were large enough to take in the smell of violets but will settle for the taste of small white candies with the flavor of them written in Roman letters and carried in a tin in his not so very large pocket. He wishes that his ears were large enough to take in the sound of a hundred white Russian winters, that his wallet was also large enough to hold enough money to buy a house there and that his memory were deep enough to hold every moment that he has had in a glass with rounded edges hand blown in Italy because when he dies he knows he will move towards the light and nothing else and that the universe is very large thought his eyes...

Fragments | Lisachun | Page 2

Ghost Fern

By on Mar 27, 2016 in poetry

Pin It I took this picture in a shady forest in Oregon. I call it a ghost fern because that’s what it looks like to me. I don’t know what it’s actual name is. Most of the poems that I’ve posted here so far were written by me within the last 5-8 years. None were written in 2014 or 2015 because I don’t think I wrote any poems in those years! Too much moving, too much change, confusion, turmoil, and not the kind poetry can help unravel. My friend C has been moving and I was at the old house briefly helping just a little bit. They also moved last year, a major move, but what they did that time was, for the most part, just transport things from one house to the next. This time she is trying to purge and lighten the load. It’s both painstaking and freeing, even just to watch. I’ve known C and her family for many, many, many years. I knew her when I...

Fragments | Lisachun | Page 2

The Beauty of Getting There

By on Feb 25, 2016 in art, collage, recovery

    Pin It I was going through my old blog and came across some photos of my art in progress. Like this one. Which I remember got made into something I think I sold to a woman who helped me with my banking, right before I moved out of Santa Fe. There were a lot of photos of wonderful foods that friends had gathered from their gardens and arranged colorfully on various tables. There were pictures of children and babies. Also, I used to travel (as in going somewhere, looking for something) a lot and it’s not the travel that was so unusual but what I noticed – and someone recently remarked on this to me as well – was that I was always looking for beauty, and my work, at its essence was concerned with beauty, noticing it, capturing it, bringing it, offering it. I’ve been on a long break from making art steadily and more so from pushing it out into the...

Fragments | Lisachun | Page 2

The Heart as a Flower

By on Dec 14, 2015 in callings, Flow

I’m at the ocean a lot, so it’s true, I have many, many pictures of the ocean. Maybe it’s because I lived so far from it for so many years that I never tire of it and could keep posting pictures of it and I don’t know about all of you, but I would never be bored. Pin It When I lived in Santa Fe winter would come too soon and it was already a quiet life but it would get tortuously quiet. During the day I would hike on my favorite trail that wound its way through the woods and along the stream that was iced over. It got dark so early and it was so cold. In the last place I lived I would spend maybe $350 a month on heat but it never got warm. I would get in bed just after sundown because I ached so much with the cold. And the quiet I’m talking about is the quiet of having everything slow down so much to the point where there literally is little distraction...

Fragments | Lisachun | Page 2

Quinella

By on Dec 11, 2015 in Poems, poetry

Quinella   Thursday. On a whim my lover, D, and I, go to the horse races. We bet on some horses, mostly mid range long shots. We win, we lose. We are at Hollywood Park in Inglewood, and it’s pretty run down, pretty grungy, but there is something about its rundown, offbeat air that I, in a weird way, love. Like the green bathrooms with their eerie lights and vintage smell. The old men are studying the favorites in the newspaper, yelling when theirs comes in on the rows of TV screens above our heads. In between races I walk way, way out to the car, where the parking is free, to get the book I’d brought to read. On my way out a black man comments on my legs, says he can tell I haven’t been hanging out in prison, cause my legs don’t have marks on them, they are pretty, he says. I smile, just a little, to keep it friendly. I keep walking. I hope I don’t have to see him on my way back....

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