Yesterday while photographing roses to post on Facebook I could not help but notice clover on the lawn. Thought it looked rather like someone had thrown a bucket of popcorn on the grass and scattered it about. A very common plant with a wonderful scent that keeps bees away from the humming bird feeder for a time. In this photo I tried to capture the elegant and complex beauty of the design within the clover. As ever be well.
This is entirely a work of fiction and none of the names have been changed. What? Well, maybe some to protect the innocent. The Who? The Band. The What? Not U2…The Stones rolling in recent events have turned the tides of Time into a tsunami of world news and makes one wonder who is writing some of these scripts for the White House here in the good old USA. I don’t know if I can follow any of this crap and it pisses me off because of the time taken away from the roses, garden and greening of the international famous ridge behind the house, yet I am compelled to comment.
I did have a good walk today and did some grocery shopping for enough provisions to make it to the end of the month. On my walk for no reason at all, between prayers and bird watching, I thought about Trump’s falling out of the race, good thing, and am sure some of the old boys gave him a shove. Then I thought about the birth certificate crap, Newt. Nice name for a child by the way. How about salamander? No, honey, I like Newt. sheesh. Recent comments by the Newt had the party give him up in a heartbeat. On the other hand the President Of The United States Of America forked up a birth certificate, joked the Trump and pissed off Israel. Smooth move. Not for political contributions but this is not what the Obama administration is about. So, what it it about? I don’t have a clue and it causes me time away from the garden and that pisses me off.
My name is Stephen Craig Rowe, I was born in Oak Park, Illinois in 1947. I know this is hard to believe but it is true and a matter of public record. My ancestry is German, Irish and a smattering of this and that over thousands and thousands of generations. I honor those who came before each and every day. In any way I am able ,through my art and words and never pretend to be any other, than I am.
The Obama Irish connection to me, is a bit absurd and offensive. What next? Jimmy Hoffa? The Kennedy Family? Deeper roots in Kenya? Oprah’s long lost brother. Cousin of Dr. Phil, or Henry Kissinger’s nephew, a Shah of Iran’s distant cousin? Stephen King could not imagine a more surreal cause of events and absurdity that turns Roots into a nightmare gone wild.
Hmm, I don’t know Hun. WTF is this? Suck it up and enjoy we are Irish now. Maybe tomorrow we will be with bloody Brits who did not invite us to the wedding and the Queen who may be my great grand Auntie just because.
Smile and as ever be well, Stephen Craig Rowe.
The first rose of this year recently bloomed in my small garden and I had to take camera to the yard in order to share some of these images and words. Am sure some are thinking, “ old Stephen is a bit nuts about his roses and into his cup of gin again”. Fine, for this is true and would not have it any other way because of the joy found and seen in the first rose of spring as she flowers, then graces my eyes with a silent poetry, a visual affirmation that the artist is alive, well, and in tune with nature as much as one may be in the miracle of life in the all. Or something like that as one re creates images that capture moments the painter/poet desires to share.
There one may begin to understand my personal feeling for the first rose of spring, for there seems to be a light within the flower that displays an energy as if the rose gives light as well as takes light.
Though only a simple painter and sometimes bad poet there is a profound beauty in the fold of petals of the first rose of spring. As ever be well, Stephen Craig Rowe
Rain ran through the night and all the day long tapping at windows rather like an old friend lost in the wind. Gently tapping at the window to be let in.
In and out of dreams a soft rain fell the night long and all through the day greening lawns and the ridge as though by magic from one day to the next and in between the garden and all were greening. Rose buds about to bloom and flower. Ripe and twine sweet spring rains tapped windows and dreams greening the garden and ridge. As ever be well, Stephen Craig Rowe
There is ever poetry on the ridge in the greening and change of seasons that is a joy to behold. Even on the grey days there is a glory in the light as some sleep late in dreams and others hear the bells ring dawn’s first calling.
Some mix paint with words, or words with paint and some just dream that it is all a work in progress. For that it is as all is a work in progress.
Indeed there are times when a part of the painting is greater than the whole or when one word stands out in a poem to make a line turn into itself turn about and seem to write free and alone as the author pauses.
There is ever a rush of ideas, that cause a most curious this and that, as one brush stroke or well placed word may change the world forever. Perhaps the painter is bold while the poet is cautious for they are one in the work in progress for the betterment of all. Poetry, painting, fine art. So very near and dear, yet you are so near and dear with a voice like no other. I turn into paint and words, place my fingers on steel strings and make the violin sing wordless songs that dreams cause awakening. Rattle on the keys, sling the return when the bell rings and keep on typing because of poetry and the work in progress. As ever be well, with love, Stephen Craig Rowe
