if you have contributed a piece of writing and do not see it here please let me know (painter@rickmobbs.com). I am sorting writing with images in preparation for compiling a real storybook collaborative site elsewhere. I want to make sure I don’t lose anyone’s work in the process.
pepek (or the one we call pepek) author of myunclepepeksjournal and quite a few poems on this blog, sent in rescue the princess
arkay, author of the blog pessimistic idealist, wrote in with honoring a goddess.
damyantig, author of the blog Daily (w)rite, determined to stick to her prose discipline and to avoid poetry, is back-sliding. However, her back-sliding is our treat. Here is her poem, play with me.
and from johemmant, here is ma-femme. visit her blog, floresence, if you love poetry.
here we have animal, from Z, who calls herself an inhibited exhibitionist and is the author of the naked truth. While her post is not x-rated her blog is deeply personal and erotic.
and from the good ship gingatao, the master mariner’s salty wordfeast, Having lost everything, again.
birdie jaworski wrote to say she has written a story for this image. i’ll post as soon as it comes in!
johemmant, author of the blog, floresence, (check it out!) has written the promised land
damyantig, author of the Daily (w)rite, with her amazing first contribution here – writing about a painting
jodi, author of the paisley blogs, wrote incongruent.
tapestry story fragment, photo and actual hand stitched tapestry courtesy enigma
Here, interestingly enough, Glenn Buttkus, co-author of the blog, feel free to read, has taken the original tapestry prose and broken it into lines of poetry. comments anyone?
from the author of the blog ocellus, the incomparable ozymandiaz, The Prayer of Bearmom
And published on bibliosity/feel free to read, a poem by Janet Leigh, Many Miles
Greybeard, the author of crackedheadblog, wrote Dark Matter
From the author of the blog, the junkie’s wife we have accountable, damn it
arkay, of the pessimistic idealist, wrote art thursday
From mister books, image prompt thursday
From erin, author of what winners do, wrote No Containment
From nan de, creator of the blog, vignettes, three haiku, here, with another version here
paisley, author of whypaisley, wrote bird of happiness.
In a poem he calls Enigma, Glenn Buttkus, of bibliosity, has taken a bit of my prose, (tapestry fragment, enigma), cast it into lyric/poetic form and matched it with this image.
Glenn Buttkus has posted A Delicate Balance, a collaboration between Doug Palmer and Alex Shapiro on his blog bibliosity/feel free to read
Arkay, author of the pessimistic idealist, wrote Negative Dark, a product of his sleepless night poetics. Maybe he should not sleep more often!
Pam, author of coosacreek/amputated moon, wrote Birth Song
Aan’s calf, by rick
How Your Soul Might Slip Away, by Cristine, author of the blog, mariacristina. With video accompaniment…
Arkay, of the pessimistic idealist, wrote MAELSTROM
niebla who writes the blog niebla/fog contributed calf in the astral world,
The Charmer, by the one we call pepek, the author of my uncle pepek’s journal, in response to the 5/16/08 prompt.
cristine, author of mariacristina, wrote In the Book of Good Love
by johemmant, of floresence, we have fetishes and fishes
pam, author of amputated moon, wrote water dance for the image above.
from pessimisticidealist, something Arkay calls, “a silly little bit of fluff”
from greybeard, of cracked head, a poem, why’s more less?
From whypaisley, her poem, Bag Lady, from the image posted 4/29/08,
And from yours truly, mary draws from silence
triple damn cat by rick
and triple damn cat, recast by glenn buttkus, co-author of bibliosity (tell us which shape you like!)
Co-author of the collaborative blog Feel Fee to Read, Glenn Buttkus wrote 4 Buck Gas, from the painting, Stupid War
And from the same image, Broadus Mobbs (age 7 at the time) dictated Stupid War
Doug Palmer wrote Another Fine Day from the painting Loopy Heart, posted on Feel Free to Read
from the one we know as pepek (my uncle pepek’s journal), we have what they said to him
cristine, author of mariacristina, wrote and produced a video (!), cheetah dreams of barefoot boy for the image above.
ozy (ozymandiaz), of ocellus, weighing in with oh the places we will go.
greybeard, of cracked head blog, wrote from the corner of my eye
kailey, three and a half years old, told this story to xpalla (who told it to us)
arkay, from pessimistic idealist, wrote jayme reads
paisley, author of whypaisley wrote teach me death from this image.
Here is johemment’s poem, hallowed ground, and the link to floresence, her poetry weblog. Please visit all of these artists/poets!
Ozymandius wrote ‘Neath the Ground. His blog is Ocellus.
short and not so sweet, by greybeard, author of crackedheadblog
from bottlecapper, author of diary of a quitter, the poem hallowed ground
poetry playtime, from misterbooks
from myunclepepeksjournal, a quiet poem, hallowed ground
niebla, the voice of the hermetic weblog, niebla/fog, wrote dead suburb
and we are patiently waiting to hear from lakota
and I wrote dream images
a dark light rewrite by rikkitikk
james17930, author of the blog, Intropolis, wrote Nanda, using this painting as his starting point
and paisley, author whypaisley of wrote completion
…..
…..
…..
here is an explanation of the darfur fridge project
and from the incomparable oz, creator of the blog Ocellus, a poem about more than the darfur fridge
Prester John, from crackedheadblog wrote faith without works
whypaisley, rockin’ girl blogger, wrote darfur fridge.
expalla, known only as expalla (want help setting up that blog? write me) wrote a silly little door
oz the incomparable, also known as ozymandiaz wrote mystical from this. he is the author of the blog ocellus
christine, prolific author of mariacristina wrote Lantana using this painting as a starting point.
and from the vanishing enigma, writing about the image above, we have this
A here is a poem from Lakota, author of the handsome blog, naughtylakota (be warned!). She’s been promising one, and wrote the ailing child to tell the story of this painting. I believe she has tapped into her softer side…
Here is Light, by johemmant, author of floresence
oops! I’m losing track. Did anyone write about this one?
how trying living in a world of nonsense, by rikkitikki
damyantig, author of the Daily (w)rite, with her first contribution here – writing about a painting
johemmant, the author of florescence wrote asherah for the storybook.
Here is a link to incongruent, a poem by paisley, creator of whypaisley, based on the image above.
Neath the ashen sky, by the very able and gifted Ozymandiaz (ocellus) responding to the invitation to make up a story about this painting. Please visit his blog for more great stuff. (I would like one day to illustrate one of his pirate poems.)
and here is standing in the shadows, johemmant’s remarkable story, using the painting above. please visit her blog, floresence,
from xpalla, who still doesn’t have a blog although she is the one who started all this, there was no denying the look in her eye
whereabouts revisited, the end of the story
wasting time at the talk machine
and I in my heaven, and you in your hearse
a dense little poem for the family
a moody little piece of nonsense
a little note of explanation, or sizzle, in memory of broadus evans
ruby, in memory of ivan gold
rough work, in memory of aan bunting mock



See I saw this in my googlyreader and thought omg, she’s had the baby, baby, babies, omg, they missed a twin? And came hurrying over here….naughty Rick.
I will check out the ones I haven’t read asap.
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hahaha
she? he? is predicted to arrive with the summer solstice, the longest day of the year… which reminds me that the Halloween homebirth of our son, Broadus, was the longest, scariest night of 1999…
we are busy nesting now, getting ready…
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Greetings from Feel Free to Laugh and Feel Free to Read.
I like your work and I have linked your site on FFTR.
I don’t know what do do about getting the Marlow/Butch
thing to work but I’ll see what I can do…….Doug Palmer
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Rick, I made you a request on my blog…not sure if I did the right thing? I know you are busy preparing for the addition to your family, and I wish you and your wife all the very best:)
Do keep us all updated!
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damyantig, left you a note on your blog. Sure, I’d love to do it.
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I posted your piece A LITTLE PIECE OF NONSENSE on FFTR, then I rearranged it gently into an epic poem. I tried to post it on that part of the site, but it kept being “discarded”, so I will try here, or send it directly to your email:
Glenn
You all have read A MOODY LITTLE PIECE OF NONSENSE as written by Rick Mobbs, because that form is how it appears on his site, MINE ENEMY GROWS OLDER. But his painting, his words, would not let things be, nor me–be, so I tweeked it, as I am prone to do, with Rick’s permission, astonishment, and gratitude.
Moody Nonsense: Redeux
Water is the sound
of small boys
throwing stones
and chunks of iron
and old bones
into the ocean.
Water is the sound
of bones dissolving.
Water is a black sound.
Is there a blacker sound?
“Who goes there?”
asks the moon.
The moon had been
sleeping in the sun,
just the crescent
of its eye
is open.
“We do,”
say the neck bones.
“We do,”
say the vertebra
along the upper spine.
“We do,”
say the plates and blades
and sticks of bones,
the ligaments,
the balls and sockets
of the shoulders.
“Hold us up,”
they say to the moon.
“I can’t,”
the moon replies.
“Your strings are broken.”
The swish
and swirling chuckle
of the ocean
as it sucks
the marrow
from the bones
and grinds them down
and pulverizes them?
A distant sound,
like church bells ringing
from the sandy cones
of anthills.
A pure sound,
with tiny undertones
of gravity,
and rain approaching?
Rain through fig trees,
rain through broad leaves,
rain through palm trees,
rain through sand,
washing nutrients
from tired bones.
“What of our addition?”
say the old ones,
“Our subtraction?
Our multiplication?
Our division?”
“Your calculus is sand,
your sand is glass,
your glass is time,
your time is mine,”
the wind hisses
through teeth closed
against the rain.
”I am coming for you now.
Are you ready?
Get ready then.”
The old guys
hoot and cackle
so as the wind
removes
their arms and legs,
their livers
and at last,
their heads–
Without heads
they can’t remember
anything.
“Begin again,”
the moon suggests.
“Start with a rocking motion.
One starfish from the ocean,
two starfishes on the sand,
three turtles
and a house of glass,
an hourglass,
a box of time.
A zero moving in a stream.
A little thing.
A rose.
A rose is missing.”
“Where is my rose?”
I asked the moon.
I was with the other kids
tossing things into the ocean.
I had found a piece of bone.
Raised threads across
an etched surface.
Minute breaks and cracks,
star patterns.
One end sheared.
Inside were hidden chambers,
hollow rooms,
supporting columns.
I felt something.
The wind laughed.
I knew the moon
winked at the wind.
I chucked the thing
into the ocean
and heard the sound
a grain of sand makes
when it separates
and falls,
featherless
and mostly round,
through the hourglass
when the glass
is opening.
“Where is my Rose?”
I ask again.
The moon says
nothing;
it seems saddened.
The wind puts bow
to string
nd turns.
His audience
is the universe
that I am standing in.
I cover my ears
but I still hear
the sound.
Sad notes run down
the string
and I am crying.
“Why am I crying?”
I ask the moon.
“Your Rose,”
the moon prompts kindly.
“Hush,”
says the wind.
The wind
is always hushing
someone.
Now the scene has
changed.
The boys are gone.
Gone the ocean, beaches, sand.
Water is a black sound
where creation was.
Water is an opening
in the wind.
Water is a mindless thing.
The wind is endless repetition.
Water is oblivion,
my hearts longing.
“Chide me, then.”
I say to the wind.
“Say something.”
Willows weep around me
but they are water trees,
like cypress.
They were meant to weep
and go on weeping.
I can’t ask the moon
for answers.
The moon won’t answer
direct questions.
Focus
on the crashing breakers
and the star
above the sound.
“I want to know who you are.”
I say to the star.
It danced
with rose and amber
through horizons
layered without end,
mists–the final breath
of friends, enemies, lovers and companions.
Endless generations
and that single point
which burned so fine
an opening
through every one.
For a second
the dots connect
and then the mist rolls in
again.
I reach
and see my hand
dissolve.
“Dissolve the rest of me,”
I demand,
but the wind refuses
to hold coherent sound.
I have my thoughts,
my emotions.
I have my sense
of dread
and my well-honed sense
of longing.
I have air
but it will not carry
words.
I was upset.
It is so hard,
using prayers
when I want
to tear words
out of the sky.
Every new horizon
brings a concerto
of popping strings,
and each time
I return
I see my star
and I say,
“Come here,
come home to me.”
“I am home,”
the star sings.
“I light a world.
I can’t leave.”
“You are a coward”,
I whispered
into my tin can.
“You are not brave.
You should not
do this to me.”
She did not answer.
She did not leave,
she drew no closer,
nor did
the pattern of stars
around her
change.
“Leave them!”
I cried.
No answer.
I turned to the moon.
I explained my situation.
I said,
“No power here,
I have no power.”
“Neither you,
nor any other,”
said moon
to flower.
“And I don’t feel much
like a flower.”
“You are,”
the moon said.
“You are.”
Tell me,
how can I believe
I am a flower
when the life
I breathed for
is such a dim star,
so far away,
over so much water?
Rick Mobbs
***Gently rearranged by Glenn Buttkus
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