Poetry

Rule of Life

I want to start living like a monk…
quiet, listening
feeling patterns – from the drum of heartbeat
to the timber of voice
and the cadence of speech
Waking early becomes less a chore
and more a sacred rhythm
The dog’s eager animal companionship
guides me to a friend for the journey
to move, to begin, to be aware
in the pre-dawn hours.
A moving into the world
rather than away –
taking with me an inner rhythm –
my touchstones, breathing,
pausing to see the patterns,
points of connection.
​
I am going to start living like an artist…
Well, yes,
but maybe out loud
this time,
a bit less hidden
Remembering
I am
following
an ancient path.
Tapping into the old way,
into wisdom.
Deep and worn smooth
by the touch of hands,
High touch,
seeking connection
The art of living, making,
and learning
to frame my practice
Art is a way to newness
around each bend
openness to begin
and to see where the practice leads,
to invite others on the journey
to share vision.

I want to start living like a mystic…
full of wonder, curiosity, awe
to let dreams weave between
black branches
and to stand tall
and in contrast
like that white-barked tree
I want to come out of hiding
without feeling I must DO
something to earn my place

My place is reverence,
attention,
eye contact,
soft voices,
space for now to happen,
to be discovered anew.

- Kathryn Coneway

Imagine Inventing Yellow

​With paint 
accompanied by that joy 
in discovery 
of a child 
mixing paint with sticks.


But yellow is PRIMARY 
It comes FIRST
You can’t invent it!
The children protest
You said so -
I already KNOW that!


Ok then, 
imagine discovering yellow
in a field, 
a lone autumn tree 
bright against the faded browns
in warm highlights 
on white curtains, 
the plastic watering can
that pops against the green grass
as light returns after the rain


In the light 
at the just right time 
of day as the sun ripples the wall 
thrown in through 
hundred year old glass 
in a bungalow 
as children settle 
in late evening.  


Then gather those 
children close so
the thrill of discovery 
is so clear 
they feel they’ve invented
this yellow, 
can own it, 
name it, inhabit it, 
and share it.
​
- Kathryn Coneway (inspired by M. C. Richards)

The Laundry is Done

The Laundry is Done…

I proclaim
yet only
for an instant
and
not counting the clothes 
on our backs
or the towel on which 
I dry my hands.

Clean enough 
for now 
a brief completeness
as two boys gather 
t-shirts, socks, 
sorting and stuffing 
into drawers
soon to be 
undone. 
I long for 
a more creative act, 
a sense of accomplishment
to make something-
something that’s done 
something important
beyond the daily meals 
and appointments
and general sorting.

A few stolen moments
to paint, 
to write, 
to leave a trace
I’m here
this is what I see
what I know 
who I am.

There’s sorting and preparing 
here too-
things published, 
on display, 
a grand finale, 
a finished project 
out in the world.
I’m here!

And then it’s over.
Frames come home
to lean against the foot
of already over-full walls.
What now, what next? 
Can it be done,
already? 
I long for tasks 
that let me rest 
in repetition.

- Kathryn Coneway