johnsapothecary-blog

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gobsmacked in the first volley

~blanchefleur

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ignoble white

~blanchefleur

the land of milk and honey. in spring, an abundance of wildflowers, tall grass, rolling. the massive trees fed by an underground limestone river, begin to leaf, oak and sycamore and the later pecan, and then form a verdant canopy. all the greens rush in effortlessly, so that its easy to overlook this natural embarrassment of riches!

and many times, underneath the lushness, the white poppy appears, silver-green stems, white flowers 2 to 3 inches per bloom. they have little barbs which remain benign to the touch but visually allow an almost thornless. although they tend to grow in isolation from each other, amidst other spring flowers, they will occasionally turn up in bunches. i have seen this poppy species as far as galveston island, infrequently. but they manage there in the salty swamp.

in central texas, however, the white poppies grow much larger, maybe by 20%. they tend to cluster together more. i found a patch in eagle lake, west of houston blooming profusely, perhaps 30 blooms simultaneously, happy no doubt that they were far enough from the coast to avoid the stagnant air and briny wetland far more suitable to a robust lily or bushy blue stem.

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three framed flowers on the side of the road

~blanchefleur

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c t garcia, bastrop

~blanchefleur

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IN THE SEVENTH YEAR THE LIGHT BLINKED & THE PASSION SWOONED & IT ALL LOOKED GREEN & IT FELT LIKE A BIG DAY COMING, & SO AGAINST HIS BETTER JUDGEMENT, HE BEGAN TO WRITE IT DOWN.

I’m back.  This, of course, means very little to anyone who may have accidentally bumped into this blog, which is not a blog.  Today, Monday Ferbruary13, 2017, I will begin again.

  Here is the thing -- for as long as it takes & as often as it changes and as foolish as it may look, I pledge to write the Great American Novel.  This humble scroll will help me organize as I write.  The first sentence follows.

The butterfly was gigantic, more than three inches wing-tip to wing-tip with a split tail & a small head the color of polished anthracite, even where its eyes were supposed to be, like a black rubber mask so dark that it seem impossible that it might see through its opacity.

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June 2012.  In the World about to come.  A perfect house on Avenue S.  Before the police.  Before orgaized crime.

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Gustave Doré    Donkey Skin

Fairy tales are quite spooky, as above illustrated.   The conflict in this Cinderella like story is, apparently, paternal incest. 

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Olga Tremblay

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An Homage to Jim Lahey — c.s.Blancheflower

Lahey:  (slurred) Its not me, Randy, its notme  Iswear  toGod.  It's the liquor, Randy! (even more slurred) The liquor IS the anger!

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Landscape, Banks of the Yerres - Gustave Caillebotte

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Yerres, the Aviary in the Ornamental Farm - Gustave Caillebotte

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Tea Trees near Cape Schanck, Victoria by Eugène von Guérard, 1865 (detail)

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008- Sydney Heads- Eugen von Guerard- Google Art Project by ayacata7 on Flickr.

www.odisea2008.com Referencia post: www.odisea2008.com/2014/08/paisajes-de-australia.html

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Tour d’Eiffel (above photo)

Paris (1998)      edit from Dec.1, 2015

when I told you in myopic excitement about Paris & all the places we might go. you smiled stiffly, anguished, then twirled away--

 When to go?  What to wear?  Who would cut your hair?

peacefully, I withdrew comment, went back to our bedroom dreamt. the proposed trip was black & white atop Pompidou:  blurred buildings  roof gardens  pale barren sky

There was a rooftop topiary some broken lattice & then, hours later a laconic bulldog in the Marais sitting in the doorway of a dirty bar guarding her “Mauvais Garcon” its dark paint pealing from its frame flowerboxes slumped in front of its windows.

 In my dream

The images multiplied & darkened. It grew rainy.

Looking at the ceiling I stared up through the Eiffel Tower Its iron-blue bars grasping, heavenward to a hazy day where later, the rain & the clouds would seem perfect

I held out my arms & thought of flights to distant gardens  away

 from here. Farther. Where I might go to bear the isolation & repair my broken heart. a distant land, maybe with a path through the woods where light tumbles into

 straw colored edges,  auburn brambles, tree trunks & red earth

where I might stumble peacefully away from the fog of holding to a greying truth that Paris could not be replaced. that Paris could not replace.

-c.s.blancheflower

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Joseph Mallord William Turner 

Three seascapes, 1827

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Osgiliath - Zsámbék, Hungary