The Art of Paper Filigree

This blog is to celebrate the things I enjoy making. This includes quilling art, crafts, and cooking recipes and ideas, as well as some musings. I enjoy sharing ideas. By all means, if you want to borrow an art idea, go for it. But please, make it your own; don't just copy. If you've never heard of quilling art, I hope this introduces it as an art form and possible hobby. And I hope the pages to the right of the quilling blog posts offer up information, ideas and inspiration.

Enjoy your visit! If you have questions or comments, by all means share.


Thirsting at the Well

Lingering in the cold shadows
away from the naked light;
there’s a complete eclipse of my mind
in this spiritual corner of night ~
I see the stars; feel the breeze,
but just can’t focus my mind.

There’s a cold and hollow world
trying to chill my heart;
Ghostly images strut before me
and I must play a tiny part
in this eery, faithless drama
that’s grabbing at my heart.

Dreams are holding me hostage
in the deepness of the night.
I am firmly mired in the muck
yet reaching for lofty heights ~
I can feel them yet can’t touch them;
can feel, but not see the lights.

Then I’m standing in deep shadows,
shivering, naked and alone.
I’m thirsting at a wishing well,
the hand above me is my own.
With one final desperate wish
I`m dropping my very last coin.

Waiting, waiting at the well,
hoping to hear the splash.
How can I ever get my wish?
How could I have been so rash?
In the still silence of the shadows,
aching dreams are gone in a flash.

Yet those dreams hold me hostage
in the stillness of the night,
I’m firmly mired in the muck
still reaching for lofty heights ~
can feel them but can’t touch them;
can’t even focus my mind.

Waking in a cold sweat,
what sweet release can I find?
Waking in the blackness,
I can’t even focus my eyes ~
can’t focus, can’t focus ~ my mind.
Darkness and cold sweat blind my eyes.


The Wrong Way

I was going the wrong way,                    
so I turned into a circuitous roadway
and drove slowly past a cluster
of townhouses where poor people live.
There were children everywhere ~
running, kneeling, yelling, falling ~
skinning knees and elbows on raw curbs
and leaping up again with the enviable
resilience of youth to continue playing
on the hot pavement outside their doors.
As some boys piloted their skateboards
and bikes over speed bumps, I noticed
a delicate little girl standing alone
against the wire fence around the compound.
She was gazing out across a carpet
of lush grass punctuated with ancient trees,
manicured shrubbery and marble head stones
and looking at her made me think
how very odd it is that we treat our dead
better than our children.


The Fourth Circle  
There came to me a beautiful song
on a violently stormy night.
The voices seemed to be everywhere;
yet the singers were out of sight.
Their bittersweet voices mingled,
passions carried on the breeze;
the rhythmic pounding of stormy drums
almost lost in the groaning trees.
Then the singers’ voices grew louder;
as if chanting to loose their bonds.
Spirits crying out for freedom!
Then suddenly they were gone.
But through the pounding rain I heard
feet dancing on naked earth ~
a rhythm that made the night ache,
claiming its damp, ghostly turf.
Is this song only distant shadows
of something that’s been lost?
Or is it a spiritual reminder
of what our choices cost?
I await another stormy night,
chance to hear this song again.
The drums, the voices, the dancers,
the fourth circle pounding their pain.


The Spirit and the Dancer

The demon appeared above them and laughed;
he thought he had them cold.
He grinned at the Gentle Spirit and breathed,
"I’ll give you wings and breezes enough to fly
if you’ll only come with me."
The Spirit drew close to the Dancer, "you see,"
he answered with a shrug, "as long as I’m with her,
I have no need of these."
Put aback, the demon to the dancer turned,
"Lithe Dancer, if you follow me now,
gentle vision you will win!"
The Dancer touched the Spirit and said,
"but that would be foolish, for I have this,
as long as I’m with him."
The demon scowled and spat cruel words
at the stubborn pair beneath.
The Spirit and Dancer drew closer and smiled,
and sparked a magnificent flame.
The demon coughed, snorted and roared,
but beaten, he faded away,
relinquishing his tenuous claim.
Then the Spirit embraced the Dancer
and became a gentle cloak, sparkling jewels
where had been his eyes.
Thus softly shrouded, the Dancer took wing
and they soared across the skies.



At times I feel
I'm trying to catch a wayward moth
in a faulty net
on the darkest of summer nights
and we both
are flitting helplessly
toward the faintest glimmer
of distant light.
Yet if by chance
I catch the briefest glimpse
of beautiful, fluttering wings
in the starlight,
the bruises suffered
on unseen path
and the certain failure
of my stumbling flight
will seem a treasure to me
when I wake once more
to the still silence
of the morning light.

{I wrote this poem over 30 years ago.  In that time, nothing has really changed. It's true that the more you learn, the more you realize you know nothing.  The search, the flight, the journey continues.)

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Thanks for reading!

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