new arrivals… and new arrangements

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

the daughter

and I in my heaven, and you in your hearse

a dense little poem for the family

a moody little piece of nonsense

why you drink so much baby?

love poem

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

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This entry was posted in art, collaboration, collaborative storybook, ekphrasis, image prompts, myths, painting, picture prompts, poem, poetry, prose poem, stories. Bookmark the permalink.

6 Responses to new arrivals… and new arrangements

  1. johemmant says:

    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.

    Like

  2. rick mobbs says:

    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…

    Like

  3. Lane Savant says:

    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

    Like

  4. damyantig says:

    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!

    Like

  5. rick mobbs says:

    damyantig, left you a note on your blog. Sure, I’d love to do it.

    Like

  6. 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

    Like

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