Carol Bass

a continuous flow of feelings and color, inspired by the beauty around us

Post 260: meditation, hitchhiking, Buddha,

On the Way to the Flower Farm


they don’t even know how they keep us burning

Gregory always walked from his house on Highway 174
to market or the gas station
I had passed him for months, even years,
me wondering, he wandering
he didn’t appear to be employed

never asking for a ride
walking like Thich Nhat Hanh
hands clasped
I had seen what I thought was a ceramic Buddha in his yard
I assumed he was enlightened
beyond us all

this morning I offered him a ride, it was cold
and the sun bright and hopeful
we spoke along the way
I learned his name
asked if he was Buddhist

our eyes locked for a moment and he said,
“I’m just trying to take the proper steps”

Post 259: little blue heron, coastal waters



does anyone know why?
the gangly and graceful wood storks like to hang out
with their friends?

but the Little Blue Heron chooses to be alone?
maybe she’s struck with the beauty of this world
and all she can manage is absorbing

her good fortune
having a body with celadon green legs
pale as the oceans of central america
her covering of stunning indigo blue feathers

she can squawk and squeal, unembarrassed
that her voice doesn’t match her glamour
and she gets to forage for tender fish
swimming in the new emerging vegetation of coastal waters
her awe that she wasn’t born a pack animal
a lumbering camel in the sub sahara

Post 258: Black River, dreams, singing, crying



feel the river as it pours shallow over sandy earth
over and through the branches
reaching other tributaries
like the spine of your lover
keeping love flowing
flowing through my dreams
hearing the water’s voice
singing with the swimming snakes tickling the currents
my body floating downstream
such life coming from down deep
giving water to everything nearby
the river cries now
cries out to us
we’re coming
hold on
hold on

Post 257: New Year’s Hawk

New Year's Hawk

Forever I Waited

by the cold glass of the window
watching the hawk
who was watching the dead grass
for any movement

head turning 180
wind fluffing up feathers
stretching out a left claw
balling talons in and out
tucking it up
in warm tummy feathers
keeping limber for the hunt

wildness blessing
in a split second
she was gone

Post 256: Hot Collards, bourbon, pecan pie, marsh grass, poem, painting



on the way to the church supper
the marsh green golds
flow into celadon field cabbages
and the lady sings as she serves
…”leaning on the everlasting arms”
the grass green peas
the soft pale lima beans
the dark steamy collards
all salty with ham juice
so much green
and the pecan pie with bourbon
that Martha is serving
will save you in the afternoon
while you dance to the music
alone by yourself

the chickens and goats
at Lone Palmetto Farms
dance too in the fields
you are not alone
the plumber leaves eggs on your porch
not alone
you cook an omelette of gold

then life
riddled with black holes
bubbles on the surface
and is tolerable
…monumental even
so much love color

Post 255: Highway 174 energy, Cleopatra, tar, beach, poetry, painting



her long coiled locks
…partially tamed by a yellow hard hat
and the steamy tar
whispered their common textures
rich, dense, oil-thick, robust blackness
scorching in the morning sun

the battered sign she held
rusty red metal
flashed while she moved

safe on the grassy shoulder
her slow-stop turning
controlled the crawling beach traffic

grease-spattered work pants
highway yellow vest
…over dark graceful breasts
a discovery for the pages of Vogue

were other drivers as stunned ?
needing a jolt to wake up ?
needing no gold, no Mark Antony
her simple being was more than enough

Post 254: deer, painting, remaining calm…..poetry, art

all morning, the deer

love magic

all morning the deer came
stared with big brown eyes
like I was their mother

Post 253: Osprey, morning glory, horizon, poetry, painting


Autumn Morning Goosebumps

your veins tremble
blood simmers watching frenzied squirrels
race around hiding food
you’re with them of course
putting everything in order
for cold days coming

morning colors hang soft and muted
except for a glistening swath of light at the horizon
where God took a buttery gob of titanium white
and stroked his final mark across the sky

two pair of ospreys
soar and dip for breakfast
shimmying their bodies free of the salt water as they rise

back toward the yard
deepest purplest morning glories
bloom on their green vines

must I leave and float back down
to the kitchen
to the oven
to the roasted potatoes
for art guild tonight?

Post 252: granola, cyclone, spider, poetry, art

Indian Ocean Cyclone

One glistening strand

of a spider web
morning sun flickering
as the spider crawled up toward the palm leaf
entranced I was and caused
the batch of granola for Gordon to burn

I will mix the first with the second batch
see if anyone notices

praying for the Indian people
while the spider crawled
the charred oats, coconut, and pecans are ashes
compared to the devastation of their lives at this second

Post 249: art news, poetry, painting, autumn, South Carolina


Pink Circles

I thought I would love
emails from the Met
latest New York art news
but why?

my world is the love
for the people I love
the pink swirls
the red dots
of their touch


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