Banner Photo

Selkie Girl by Jessica Shirley with kind permission
All Rights Reserved.

Sunday, August 29, 2010

Où sont les fleurs d'antan?

white flowers retro White Cloud flowers—Retro camera shot Noelle Renee 8/29/10


purple flowers retro Purple ballerinas retro shot—Noelle Renee 8/29/10


sunlight on roses retro Sunlight on a Rose Veranda—Retro Shot Noelle Renee 8/29/10


Theme Music from “Somewhere in Time” Composer John Barry

Tina Modotti: Silver-toned Simplicity

Hammer and Sickle

Woman and Child
 Diego Rivera, Frida Kahlo and others in “Mayday”


Tina Modotti

Fine Art, Portraiture
Biography: Tina Modotti was a remarkable woman and an outstanding photographer whose legendary beauty and relationships with famous men have until now eclipsed a life integrally linked to the most important artistic, political and historical developments of our century.
In 1913 Tina Modotti left her native Italy for San Francisco, becoming a star of the local Italian theatre before marrying the romantic poet-painter Roubaix de I'Abrie Richey. By 1920, she had embarked on a Hollywood film career and immersed herself in bohemian Los Angeles, beginning an intense relationship with the respected American photographer, Edward Weston. On a trip to Mexico in 1922 to bury her husband, she met the Mexican muralists and became enthralled with the burgeoning cultural renaissance there. Increasingly dissatisfied with the film world, she persuaded Weston to teach her photography and move with her to Mexico. Her Mexico City homes became renowned gathering places for artists, writers and radicals, where Diego Rivera courted Frida Kahlo. Turning her camera to record Mexico in its most vibrant years, her photographs achieve a striking synthesis of artistic form and social content. Her contact with Mexico's muralists including a brief affair with Rivera, led to her involvement in radical politics.
In 1929, she was framed for the murder of her Cuban lover, gunned down at her side on a Mexico City street. A scapegoat of government repression, she was publicly slandered in a sensational trial before being acquitted. Expelled from Mexico in 1930, she went to Berlin and then to the Soviet Union, where she abandoned photography for a political activism that brought her into contact with Sergei Eisenstein, Alexandra Kollontaii, La Pasionaria, Ernest Hemingway and Robert Capa. Returning to Mexico incognito in 1939, she died three years later, a lonely - and controversial - death.
(Tina Modotti - Photographer and revolutionary by Margaret Hooks)

Saturday, August 28, 2010


shot_jessiemartin1 age5 (2) Jessie Martin Age 5

I've been looking so long at these pictures of you
That I almost believe that they're real
I've been living so long with my pictures of you
That I almost believe that the pictures are
All I can feel*

 I took this picture from an old photograph of my mother. She was all of five years old. I believe that I have another post with a better and clearer replica of it, but I downloaded a “Retro Camera” on my mobile phone and thought it might be interesting to take a shot of a very old photograph and make it look even more antique than it already was. I did not expect it to come out even this well, considering that it is a picture of a picture and taken on a phone camera, but some images are so powerful that they overwhelm even technical devices. I think about my mother a lot. I miss her, and this photograph reminds me of how lovely she was and also how her image is fading from my memory. I am glad that I took the picture.  She was a beautiful little girl, and I hope that her spirit is as light now as it was in this photograph. 

You how you used to be
Slow drowned
You were angels
So much more than everything
Hold for the last time then slip away quietly
Open my eyes
But I never see anything

If only I'd thought of the right words
I could have held on to your heart
If only I'd thought of the right words
I wouldn't be breaking apart
All my pictures of you*

*--“Pictures of You” excerpt of Lyrics by The Cure

Sometimes the World Just Offers itself to You

Snowy Peaks on The Horizon
Snowy Peaks on the Horizon by Danis
You need not even listen, just wait.
You need not even wait, just learn to be quiet, still and solitary.
The world will offer itself freely to you, unmasking itself.
It has no choice in the matter.
It will roll in ecstasy at your feet.
-franz Kafka



Friday, August 27, 2010

Haiku My Heart: Goat Girl

Girl got Goat
A girl and her goat
A Swiss Alpine tale sans fur
hooves, ears and caprice.

 The Lonely Goatherd from The Sound of Music with Julie Andrews

For more Haiku My Heart visit Rebecca's blog.

Wednesday, August 25, 2010

September Morning

September Morning __ By: Dave K

Morning Glorious

Ciao Bellas

i thank You God for most this amazing
day:for the leaping greenly spirits of trees
and a blue true dream of sky;and for everything
which is natural which is infinite which is yes

All Praises Sing

(i who have died am alive again today,
and this is the sun's birthday;this is the birth
day of life and love and wings:and of the gay
great happening illimitably earth)

The Center of Somone's World

how should tasting touching hearing seeing
breathing any-lifted from the no
of all nothing-human merely being
doubt unimaginable You?

Three Sisters

(now the ears of my ears awake and
now the eyes of my eyes are opened)

~ e.e. cummings ~

(Complete Poems 1904-1962)

Friday, August 20, 2010

Haiku My Heart: Bear Reflections

Polar Bear by Jack and Jill  For more Haiku see Rebecca’s Blog

A Reflecting Pool

Draws Light to What is Hidden

Bearing Tender Souls.

--Noelle Renee



Rose Meditation by Noelle Renee

Sometimes it is essential to simply pause, breathe deeply, listen to the spirit within and smell the roses. Relax and get what is needed.
Rose Meditation from Noelle Clearwater on Vimeo.

Tuesday, August 17, 2010

The Flower School

Morning Glory Brilliance

"When storm-clouds rumble in the sky and
June showers come down,
The moist east wind comes marching over the heath
to blow its bagpipes amongst the bamboos.
The crowds of flowers come out of a sudden,
from nobody knows where,
and dance upon the grass in wild glee.
Fuschia Fantasies

Mother, I really think the flowers go to school underground.
They do their lessons with doors shut,
and if they want to come out to play before it is time,
their master makes them stand in a corner.
Vermillion ScepterWhen the rains come they have their holidays.
Branches clash together in the forest,
and the leaves rustle in the wild wind,
the thunder-clouds clap their giant hands and
the flower children rush out in dresses of
pink, yellow and white.

Cloud Flowers
Do you know, mother, their home is in the sky,
where the stars are.

Lavender Dreams
Haven't you seen how eager they are to get there?
Don't you know why they are in such a hurry?

Golden Curls 
Of course, I can guess to whom they raise their arms,
they have their mother as I have my own."

This poem is from 'The Crescent Moon' by 

Rabindrath Tagore

Flower Photographs are by Noelle Renee

Flowers courtesy of the Creator. Heavenly Music Courtesy of Delibes and Molly Sander (an excellent photographer in this film –much better than moi ).

Monday, August 16, 2010


You: you are the cloud I never name,
The language that I cannot learn, the game,
I neither lose nor altogether win;
Illusion of another world above
The world beneath, outside the world within.
I squint, I blink -- but still I see you, love.

--From “The Clouds” by Thomas Disch

Cloudy by Simon and Garfunkel

Saturday, August 14, 2010

Rainforest God

Rainforest Ubud, Bali Cuba Gallery@post by Connie

(carving completely embedded in nature)

In the Forest's Heart
Bathed in a Numinous Light
We Meet the Sacred
--Noelle Renee

Rainforest Sounds

Friday, August 13, 2010

Haiku My Heart:The Dreams of Horses

The dreams of horses
are glazed with dusty sunlight
and smell of sweet hay
--Noelle Renee

America, A Horse with No Name

Pretty Tail

Photo Edward Curtis "Lucille" 1907
Pretty Tail
by Noelle Clearwater

Hawk soars and Eagle flies!
You, a young man with all the world in front of you—
God! If I had only known you then--
Sitting in a 1940’s diner, gray sport coat and baggy tweed pants,
A smooth, felt hat cocked jauntily on the back of that scraggy head.
Grey, stormy eyes and squared jaw give you that look of conscious determination
All but lost in later years.

Across from you sits a military private—your best friend,
It is a long way from reservation, yet you hear the beating of the pow-wow drum
Like blood coursing through a river of veins,
The dust rises and hangs thick in the Montana plains, making your native blood boil.

I could have loved you then, you who seemed afraid of little else than loving me.
I would have loved to hear the great old stories—held in check—behind those still, dark eyes
And determined fists ready to strike at the first man who called you Crow.

You spat fire when you were angry and blood upon a page when you were drunk—
Language was your gift; liquor your nemesis,
Ill-treated and imprisoned—your story yet unpenned,
You dug ditches in the rich brown earth that lies, still, as fallow as your grave.

Betrayed by pride and burning with rancor, you would not defend
Those who bent to lick the boots of whites, who held your neck so near the ground.
No, you would not defend your people, nor would you defend me.

Father, had I met you in that diner, I would have drunk a gin with you,
I, an honored warrior at your table, would have asked you for the stories of the Old Ones—
Of Plenty Coups and his visions of white alliance,
Of Great Grandmother with her silver-plaited hair and soft, deer-moccasined feet,
Of brown, and hopeful children who knew their fathers’ blood and the plains where they were born,
Of the tradition called the Sun Dance whose god I never knew, and you wished forever to forget.

But those stories are buried with you Old Man,
No nightmare-ridden sleep, nor need to hear your voice will bring them back,
And your words, like frail whispers—
fall to the dying earth,
like so many ashes over Little Big Horn.

I was twenty-three when you crossed over,
And I can never remember hearing those three words spoken,
That would have healed my heart.

Hawk soars and Eagle flies!
I wipe my tears alone, and walk away.

--Noelle Clearwater (all rights to poem reserved by author)

Note on the poem: I wrote this poem in a day after looking at an old black and white photo of my friend's father in the company of his best friend, a marine. Pat's father, whose tribal name was "Pretty Tail" was Crow Indian, an alcoholic and had been in prison for several years before Patrick was born. Theirs was a difficult relationship. From that information and a little more on the Crow nation, I wrote this poem. It has had some revisions since but not many.

The Beauty of Nature Music by Spiritual Flutes

Thursday, August 12, 2010

Daniel Duvall Mayers: Moon River Memories

Father and Daughter duet
When I was nine years old I remember my father coming to visit us one day, quite unexpectedly.  I knew my father for only one complete year of my life, and this was one of the four times within that year’s span that I can recall seeing him. I remember him walking up, tentatively, to the open front door of our small apartment and embracing the curly-headed little blonde girl, who stood boldly in the doorway and called him “Daddy.”

Not long after he had arrived, he sat down at the small, mahogany veneer piano, on which my sister practiced religiously, and he began to play a soft, melancholy tune that hangs in my memory still. Moon River.  As his fingers traveled in a trance over the familiar black and white keys to his childhood, I realized that this man, my father, drank tears as other men drink their coffee of a morning.

There was a sweet sadness in his playing that I have not heard since.  My mother told me later--rather mockingly I thought--that my father had the ability to play almost anything he had heard once, provided he could transpose it into the key of ‘C’.  It was as if he must bring all musical expression, I supposed, to that central place on the keyboard where sharps and flats are tonically subdued—such was the pain that made up his life.
When I turned twenty-three, nine years after my father’s early and rather senseless death, I watched the film Breakfast at Tiffany’s for the first time.  It is one of my favorite films to this day.  The image of Audrey Hepburn singing the words to Moon River accompanied by the soft strains of an acoustic guitar, made me see my father’s peaceful face and graceful hands once again.  As I watched Hepburn’s character “Holly Golightly” gaze longingly beyond the window of her tiny flat, set in a building flanked on either side by the high brick walls of New York City, I identified her sadness with mine.  She too had run away from home a long time ago and had no real place in the world to call her own.
I thought of my father as he must have been before he died, lying in his bed, looking out the window—with only a burning cigarette in his hand for company—his spirit flanked on either side by the sterile walls of an eastern state sanitarium.
 He was a long way from home, even when he returned for a visit.  And the dramatic emptiness that made up his life is the space that I’ve been left to fill.  I still cry when I see the film Breakfast at Tiffany’s. And I realize that Life is a long song that swells and ebbs on waves of yearning and discord, and though it rarely reaches resolution, its music must always be heard.
--Noelle Clearwater (all rights reserved by the author).

Moon River
Moon river, wider than a mile
I'm crossing you in style some day
Oh, dream maker, you heart breaker
Wherever you're goin', I'm goin' your way

Two drifters, off to see the world
There's such a lot of world to see
We're after the same rainbow's end, waitin' 'round the bend
My huckleberry friend, moon river, and me

(moon river, wider than a mile
(I'm crossin' you in style some day
Oh, dream maker, you heart breaker
Wherever you're goin', I'm goin' your way

Two drifters, off to see the world
There's such a lot of world to see
We're after that same rainbow's end, waitin' 'round the bend
My huckleberry friend, moon river, and me

--Johnny Mercer/Henry Mancini 1961 

Sunday, August 8, 2010

It isn't Magic by Gregory Orr

The End of a Cold Night by lrargerich

It's not magic; it isn't a trick.
Every breath is a resurrection.
And when we hear the poem
Which is the world, when our eyes
Gaze at the beloved's body,
We're reborn in all the sacred parts
Of our own bodies:
the heart
Contracts, the brain
Releases its shower
Of sparks,
and the tear
Embarks on its pilgrimage
Down the cheek to meet
The smiling mouth.
~ Gregory Orr ~
(Concerning the Book that is the Body of the Beloved)
Film--David Whyte: The Opening of Eyes 

Gregory Orr "It's Magic" from archives April 2010

The End of a Cold Night by lrargerich@ Flickr Creative Commons./ post by Picturegirl

Saturday, August 7, 2010

Open to Available Light

Red Poppy--Georgia O'Keefe

To be open to available light
in gesture, in affection, in spirit, in action;
to allow others to see the core of your
being--hearty, rich and filled 
with the seeds of compassionate grace--
is to be truly alive, fully present in the world 
and fully engaged with the divine.
--Noelle Renee 

David Whyte Incarnation Part I (1:34)

David Whyte Incarnation Part 2 (:43)