RED On a new moon night in an ancient wood, Rose, a red shadow of a girl, slipped between trees and spread her hood on the damp ground, waiting for Lupe, who ran with a wolf’s silence through the forest toward her. "People will talk," Rose whispered. "Let them," Lupe replied, her dark hair a shining tangle weaving them together. "We don't have to." And Lupe was right-- no words were needed between them. Night passed as they held hands, and watched stars spin round the sky. When morning was still a rumor, a huntsman, tracking deer, found instead Rose and Lupe, asleep, wrapped in the scarlet cloak. Rose's heart skipped as Lupe leapt to shield her. "What will you do?" Lupe demanded of him, knowing Rose was afraid of her village’s words biting and cutting them. "I will keep your secret," the boy offered. For though a hunter, he wasn't cruel. “Thank you, friend,” Rose replied, borrowing bravery from Lupe’s kisses. "But there's no secret here." They walked homeward, with fingers entwined. A crowd gathered, but no words were said, except one: “Welcome.” For people saw, shining like the full moon, a love that would become legend. (197 words, inspired by photo #6)
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Happy World Poetry Day! Here is my little contribution to the celebration.
THE SONGS OF BEES by Carrie Karnes Fannin Elms bend underneath the snow, their branches dreaming of buzzing and light. Shaking off the cold, bare limbs stretch and make ready to welcome their friends, as the warm winds slip between the trees, whispering green rumors of Spring. Their bold buds lift up to meet the young sun as she takes her morning place, lighting a path for stumbling, dusty bees who hum golden honey songs. A small ode to the oh-so-glamorous life of a writer.
STORIES by Carrie Karnes-Fannin Words carried on wind tickle my ears, asking for paper, pen, and time. Stories swirl around, playing dress-up as motes riding on sunbeams. "Be lost in the call” the best writing books tell me. But the call is lost, When my dog grumbles, the old dryer rattles and thumps and the doorbell rings. So night falls before I find paper, pen, and time to catch words on wind Or to see stories dancing in a cloud of dust from my unswept floor. By Carrie Karnes-Fannin
A sometime house dreams of man, woman, boy, girl as sweet summer arrives. At dawn dolphins play, fishermen throw silver nets, and the house awakes. Man, woman, boy, girl fill rooms with golden pancakes and sticky laughter. White curtains flutter and bees hum as the sun warms the old cottage's face. Small hands dig sand and man, woman, boy, girl’s tender gritty toes trudge home. Under lazy rains the worn boards shift and settle, but the old house stands. Golden leaves dropping, creaking rocking chairs hold close man, woman, boy, girl. Fiery foxes hunt while boats sleep on the black bay. House shutters its eyes. A bare pale cottage dreams of man, woman, boy, girl-- sweet summer come back. *** *All Rights Reserved* Every artist has a process that is unique to their aesthetic and their chosen media. I'm a "traditional" artist, working with real world materials. In my case, that is mostly cut paper, watercolor pencils, and ink. I thought it might be fun to take you guys on a behind-the-scenes tour of the creation of one a recent portfolio piece. I chose the German fairytale of the cobbler and the elves. You'll remember that it's about a poor shoemaker, desperate and hungry, down to his last pieces of leather. He had just enough to make one more pair of shoes, the sale of which were all that stood between his family and starvation. Miraculously, elves come in a series of nights, making shoes so magnificent that the cobbler is pulled up out of poverty. In gratitude, the shoemaker and his wife make clothes for the elves, after which the elves leave and are never seen again.
 "The Cobbler and the Elves" - finished piece
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