Ode to You

I give you the deep attention we call
         reverie.
You give me time of timelessness.
You have the kind of complexity we call “guts.”
Your elements are old and your stance is young.
You flex towards.
When you speak, I hear music,
         sometimes a symphony
In quiet moments, you gather (and fold) stillness to your heart.
Near or far, we have but one heart.
Did I make you or
         do you make me?
My hands plus your body equals one mind.
And while we dream of more,
my muse is naming constellations in negative space.

Slow Explorer

I am a slow
explorer,
on foot or
paddling silently
on quiet waters.

Not even
a sail to catch
the delightful free wind.
Not powered
by power, but
just by
the magnets
of light and
ambient air
and the touch
of neurons responding
to light and
ambient air.

I don’t discover
galaxies or
artifacts,
nor carry a spear.

My safety
is a smile;
my strategy is
kindness.

Slow is how
I pierce
the foreign boil.
Empathy is
the pace
I set for
Conquest(?).
No, not conquest.
Rather, resolve and
resolution, but
slowly.

Art Exstallation Manifesto

If art is cash, credit, investment, and status,
       I am dross.
Value is a flexible cup that runneth over.
Beauty is a warm soldier with, nonetheless,
       weapons of brilliant harm.

If art is making and giving, I am full, and the glad opposite
       of finite.
Color is a form of consciousness, of spirit
       holding faith in fountains.
Shadow is the substance of waiting for euphoria.

If art is holding and collecting,
       I am a loose thread meandering,
        a loose cannon rolling significant light shows
       against the pregnant dark.
Line is a singular map condensed and waiting
       for a vision to release its direction, thrust, and purpose.
Contrast is a multiplier of sensation, a confluence
       of rivers, and an omelet, both savory and sweet.

If art is a tiny gift that magnifies a glance into an embrace and
       a stitch into time itself,
       I am wealth personified.
Abstractions are deep reflections in the skewed mirror of
       the sky’s eyeballs.

If art is bold along the seams of loss,
       making a forever juxtaposition of empathy and grief,
       I am the process of mourning that beholds joy
       and treasures delight.
Texture is the way fingers see grains of sand
       and the print of stars on the bedclothes.
       Texture is the nutritional supplement
       on top of the nurturing meal.

If art is the measure of kindness is courage,
       I am love.
The elements of art are here, there, and everywhere:
       the glare on the pill bottle by nightlight,
       the crumple of black leather gloves,
       the myriad shapes of calligraphy,
       the feather of down, and the feather of dawn.
Forbidden is but one of the ways art is hidden and lost in this world.

If art is marketing, product placement, and public relations,
       I am an intriguing whisper in an empty room.

Josephine Carubia comes from a family and a culture of makers and artists. Her imagination took flight in both words and fiber. She chose the creativity of an academic career, fostering communities of meaning-making, and engaging learners at all levels from middle school to medical school. Her life is given to meanings made by following threads of imagination combined with words, colors, patterns, textures, and shapes. This is a life of articulation, quite often in the form of poetry! Her most recent book is Imagine Meander: Journeys of Reflection, Serendipity, and Delight.  

Featured Image: “Cincinnati Symphony Orchestra34” by Quincena Musical- Iñigo Ibáñez under the Creative Commons Attribution 2.0 Generic license.