Worn Down to Letters

No. 3 from: “The Darkroom Series”

Star Worn

She fell

and read

from the leaves

of her heart

a page

worn down to

letters.

No further help’s

been sent

to fill

the void.

She road the

palomino

to the

stars.

It soon took

the form

of a statue

so pure,

so sad,

so strong.

Tango to

life’s

melody.

“She Eyes”

Copyright © 2010 Nicole Rigets

Transfusions of Mind

No . 2 from: “The Darkroom Series”

Far Away We Weep

A Scarlet Line

led to the mine.

Lives were lost

before their time.

Where did they

go

before the fall,

What was their

thought,

if any.

Too dark

too bleak

a cry beyond

the cave.

A mouth

away.

A light shone

far away.

Till then we weep.

Too soon to

go away

into,

the

undertow.

"Far Away We Weep"

Copyright © 2010 Nicole Rigets

Grasp Unfaltering Ground

No. 1 from: “The Darkroom Series”

Grasp Unfaltering Ground

The sky fell back,

all was revealed,

A cake walked by,

A banana peeled.

Flying elk.

Bridges fell, All the world

had gone to hell!

Too sweet too long

Now all is gone.

Paper crying,

People lying,

Forward going

others knowing.

Stay in tune.

Sway with the moon,

don’t be deleted

until life’s work

is completed.

"Sway with the Moon"

Copyright © 2010 Nicole Rigets

“Teddy Thoughts”

No. 4 from: “The Darkroom Series”

“Teddy Thoughts”

Land mines, tears,

Too late to

crystalize the

thought.

Teddy Bears

Summer  breezes,

novels, hearts,

and flowers.

Slow nights,

the sound of trains,

level plans

and money too late

to play.  The stars

stay up at night.

Fireworks breaks

through

silent thinking.

Murmurs,

sighs & out cast

words hover in

the night.

“Teddy staying up at night”

Copyright © 2010 Nicole Rigets

In with the Fruit Peels when I Die

We’re here and gone.  We’re in and out.

The swell of the waves makes my thighs quiver and my lower body feels sensations taking in the movement of the sea.  The Shangri-La thrusts above the headland.

A deep pink geranium sits pretty in the black cast iron urn near my feet silently dropping her petals as she too admires the whitecaps. A dainty sophisticate, the geranium has an oriental lily pad leaf anchoring an English flower and bud with small petals, fanning out a saturated hue against clouds swollen with shadows leaning along the sky in layers.

The icy wind is bending tree branches and whirring the stalks of shrubs into a frenzy. The Seawalkers keep their collars up and kleenex under their noses as they brace their steps for the next burst of cold air breaking over them.  Long scarves twirl and leap outward in a scatter-brained dance.

The train tracks creak, dogs yip and howl.

My feet are cold, as is my tea, and yet it is mesmerizing to sit in the midst of it all.  A lone gull is being blown blocks out of his way by the next forceful blow of the wind.  He’s drawn across roof and tree tops and sent soaring away from the water toward the hard blue mountains.

A steady grumble makes its way through the leaky windows and the canvas awnings flap furiously against the current.

Without warning leaves are blown inside out revealing their naked light side.  The logs sitting atop the giant granite boulders lining the walk thunk, thunk, in repetition.  All is divine as blue sky and tips of sunlight foreshadow a heavenly day.

Now the sun comes out to spoil me warming my bare feet resting on the tile floor.  The rays are blinding as they reflect off the water and the surface of the sea glitters in madcap fashion. Sunlight is pulled back and in ten breaths I see only a glare as the seagulls wail mournfully.  The sun is back, in the completion of a sentence, playing hide and seek with me.  I have to squint hard against it.

More people are out walking now.  The path becomes a medley of color:  mauve, red, blue, pink, white, gold, black, navy, tan:  the colors of our clothing, our cars, and our floral arrangements.

The walk has emptied, my tea is drained, I leave the solarium in peace having read a few more pages from Louise Erdrich’s book, “The Blue Jay’s Dance.”  A Birth Year.  Exquisite, lyrical prose by a Best-Selling Author, Mother, Observer of Nature and Poet.  These little vignettes are “unpredictable and unforgettable.”  The mundane of everyday life is rendered marvelous!

Once back in the kitchen I look out and see the arbutus tree waving wildly in the wind. My concern is for the crow who built her nest in a strong fork of one of the branches.  I can see vaguely through the blossoms that she’s home by a small glimpse of her shiny black feathers.  The tree  is caught up in a baby hurricane and I think of the bird mother having morning sickness in the dizzying gale. If the eggs aren’t scrambled by the time the wind ceases the birdlings will be born remembering this psychedelic drama in their incubation. All day I fret over whether the nest will weather the storm.

I had watched the nest being built and the crow had a mate helping to weave each thoughtfully chosen strand of material into a new home. Many trips were made carrying puffs of something white and fluffy. Normally the nest rests in utopia almost hidden by the thick and lavish white flowers and green leaves of the arbutus tree; a floral-lined loft.  By sunset the scene turned calm, the five-hour power outage was repaired, and I had the kettle back on. I was extremely grateful for electricity, a safe nest, and all the energetic forces of Mother Nature purifying the air we breathe.  The electric heat is back on, the fridge is cold again, and the food didn’t spoil.  So what if the computer wouldn’t work, I got this written anyway… by hand and heart.

Crow Nursery constructed in the boughs of the red-trunked Arbutus Tree

Copyright © 2010 Nicole Rigets

Dog-Leggin’ Downtown

Early downtown,

people looked like they

were hugging the warmth of

their waking hours against them.

The sidewalks held damp and

chill

from overnight rain.

The sun can’t quite

make it out.

People are all over spitting,

the latest craze since

bums spit over our clean streets

in the fifties.

It’s all ages and genders now.

I duck into a warm booth at the back of

New Town Bakery.

Orange plastic upholstery

and

a wood-alike arborite tabletop.

The plastic glass containing amber tea

is room temperature.

I have it replaced with

a hot one

to warm my hards

from the cold gloves

I’ve worn.

I play with the dome

of steamed white dough

secreting black bean paste inside.

The bill is a dollar, fifty-eight.

How is this possible.

I leave three dollars and half the

hot refill of tea.

I will not have people working

for nothing.

"Claiming Unopened Packages of Junk Food Left on Shelf in Phone Booth"

Copyright © 2010 Nicole Rigets

Candy Pink… Pink Bow

I awake from a dream holding onto Julie with my arms wrapped around her waist.  I’m saying that my Mum is just wanting to buy as much time as possible before she dies of cancer.

In this dream I see a leopard print jacket with a candy pink, pink bow, at the top of the neck – who’s touching my clothes?

The walk to Ambleside is littered with abandoned logs.

A collage collects along the low granite wall where the seams of blacktop meet with the rock.

The wind presses forcefully against me like a new lover.  It takes all my strength to walk forward into it.

The clouds spit at me and a crow sprays white splotches across my black umbrella.

I leave the library on my way home with three heavy books curled into my arm none of which I want to read when I get home.

My Mother’s apartment building shivers in cold grey as I walk by.  I let the wind pull my hair across my eyes so I don’t have to look into the dark empty windows where she once resided in warm lighting.

I tell myself all along that nothing matters but the feeling of being under twelve today and noticing how connected I am to all of nature as I walk home in fluctuating weather conditions.

Once inside I put on something warm, wipe the bird doo from my umbrella and brew bancha tea.  I ignore the days’ old rinsed dishes and the clean laundry waiting to be put away.  I can’t scrub a sink or address an envelope right now.  I turn the ringer off on the phone, and relax into nothing.

"Sleeps in Neighbor's Treetop as I Dream"

Copyright © 2010 Nicole Rigets

Magnificent Mannequins

"Manikin Profile"
"Untitled"
"Manikin Reflection"

I take artistic license and paint this Mannequin in poster pretty colors.

"Owns" the City!

Mark Teasdale is a Professional Photographer based in North Vancouver, B.C.  To view the scope of his work online please click on the following link: http://www.flickr.com/photos/24346373@N08/

Copyright © 2010 Nicole Rigets

Gas Bag

Gas Bag

Balk,

Awkward,

Sag.

Past clash,

Mad and zany,

What was want,

Sad part.

Rant,

Yap,

Harp,

Hawk.

Gas Bag,

Drab Bag,

Was

warm Mama,

Grab

many laughs,

Play act,

Sang.

Gas Bag,

Fat Bag,

Wayward

Damp

Mad.

Sad Bag.

"Par Day"

Copyright © 2010 Nicole Rigets

“Tick Clock”

Clock

Slept in

to 10:23 a.m.

Needed it.

Asa was talking to me

at 6 a.m.

I was so tired

I couldn’t respond…

And,

they,

my dreams,

were pulling me back

into them.

He wakes up,

between 4 and 6 a.m.

each morning,

to feed

his business and financial anxieties.

He lets the reins of

negativity and hopelessness

loose,

and the beast

of despair

plunges him into

conflicted mindstreams.

He hurls rocks toward

himself,

as he projects

frustration,

into his opening hours

"Asa at Nine A.M."

Copyright © 2010 Nicole Rigets