Mother Tree

In an otherworld of reaching roots,
notched and knobbed,
intertwining with hyphae,
threadlike and ghostly,
deep underground, deep underfoot,
there is an exchange
of carbon and knowledge and
a certain root-skirting for space,
legacy of what it will take,
what it will take,
what it will take
to endure.

© Tori Grant Welhouse

PAINTING
"Roots" by Christine Alfery
http://www.christinealfery.com/

Reaching for the Stars

At the ridge
of escarpment
rising and lustering
in layered cake,
star woman ascends to the sky
in her nightgown
and striped stockings.
She slips off the earthly
like sensible shoes,
defiant of all that's contrary,
dragging her down
in a gravity of naysaying.

Star woman,
core heat woman,
keeper of elements,
she is radiant
of an inner phantasma,
points of light
in her eyes,
her fingertips,
her elbows and knees.

Her belly burns
a definitive life,
every sighting
an Andromeda,
lifting white hot
with small fusions.
No lost pleiades,
pursuing her path
along the ecliptic
where planets wander
and muse. Creative?
Combustible? The same
she-clusters luminous.

She is constellation
in the shape of woman.

© Tori Grant Welhouse

PAINTING:
"Reaching for the Stars"
Christine Alfery
http://www.christinealfery.com/

Tree House

Tree vista in the tree house,
tree feeling. Hours in the woods
frames a day almost skeletal,
sunrising and setting
on the cacophonous calling
of cranes and their wet feet,
ruddering the air with wings.
Tree believing, tree steepling,
leaves like salvers,
felted and glossy,
red, orange, amber,
green, greener, olive,
skittering the tweety birds
in the low branches
Tree sprawling, freefalling,
floor on high,
unzippering the sky,
see meadow, see valley,
see house of my innocence.

© Tori Grant Welhouse

PAINTING
"Tree House"
Christine Alfery
http://www.christinealfery.com/

Face in the Sun

Consecration of sun on my head, back, shoulders
Sky truly azure, figment of sensation
Relation to the mineral earth
Skin small sparks flinting

A moment of moments: clear, cloudless
Gypsy summer bright potency candling
Tallness a color, a prayerful altitude
Panorama of sunshine seen as part

I believe a face in the sun
I believe spider flowers make sense
Blooming up from the bottom
Every day an act of small faith

© Tori Grant Welhouse

PHOTOGRAPH
"Face in the Sun"
Fergus Grant

Candere

We look up in the grand
old theater.     Prisms     of     glass
catch     the     light, shimmer.

A chandelier is absolution
of candle glow, sparkle.
We raise our gaze, dazzling
in our own way.
Be white,     glisten.

We are part of a festooning
crowd. Celebration of glassmakers
and their many     facets,     crystalline
shapes, their one and only purpose:
play with light.

And isn't that what we all try
to do, to capture light
and     reflect     it     back.

** Part of ARTiculate exhibition at Gallerie M

PHOTOGRAPH
"Chandelier"
Gretchen Mattingly

whirl / i / gig

1: I used to spin for the sake of it.

2: I was the whirling girl,
twirling my flounces, my slip
ruffled for the purpose.

3: I sought the sky tonic
in the grass,
     dervishly,

face sharp as finial, legs bare.

4: I was dizzying
in the night room,
    pinned to the moment.

5: The turning point reoccurs to me still,
falling inside the petals,

whorl at the center,

colors surprising at their axis --
    yellow, pink, purple, dusk.

6: I am not all sepals,
holding it together.

7: I am frill, fragile will, letting go
to my inner floral envelope --

corolla, corolla!

© Tori Grant Welhouse

PAINTING
"With Fire & Song Leap"
Christine Alfery
http://www.christinealfery.com/

Magic Carpet

I willeth myself nearer,
bubbles of air caress my skin,
the carpet holds me in an open palm,
a present from you, my sorcerer

We float above the bazaar,
grilled meats, frankincense, secret pomegranates,
patterns jeweled like fruit,
laddering to the sky

I sit crosslegged, hold tight my lantern,
carpet and its sky magic undulating
We dip, turn, soar --
one thousand nights of stars,
streaming hair, tassels

In a twinkling I am come
There is you, my love,
a veranda of enchantment,
moonslice winking one shoulder,
me dreaming your spine

© Tori Grant Welhouse

PAINTING
"Magic Carpet"
Christine Alfery
http://www.christinealfery.com/

Listening for the Buoy's Bell

Slow chug,
tug of something deeper,
we cruise the submerged bruise.

Water calls to us:
Byzantium, dangerous.

We smudge the clouds,
pretend to be sailors,
navigating with our crow's feet.

Fire's on the water
or the sun's last flame.
We should be home by now.

The sail is our last skeleton.
We let it spoke,
listening for the "ting ting"

of the yellow (floating?) buoy's bell,
warning us away from shallows, shoals,
too much confession.

© Tori Grant Welhouse

PAINTING
"Listening for the Buoy's Bell"
Christine Alfery
http://www.christinealfery.com/

vol \ ume

1: Tiger me ambition
but don't jinx me with your spots.

2: Trumpet-lipped, the petals curl,
open, acrobatic, folding back.

3: Flowers on Blue.
Lapis lazuli is the skin of god,
blessing pigments like ultramarine.

4: But my capacity for orange
is three-dimensional --

corolla, corolla!

5: The stems so extravagant, thirsty.

6: Giving amplitude to pollen,
the stain is my lily blush.

e k p h r a s i s