Reflections and notes on the relationship of art to nature and of nature to art from along Warwoman Creek, in the Blue Ridge Mountains of Katuah Province of Turtle Island, where the light, the dark, the seasons, the time of deep past, deep present and deep future all mix in alchemal mists to reveal and hide and transform these slopes, shaded coves, bright rivers, deep forests and me, and together sustain me and my art.

Tuesday, February 26, 2013



                DEATH, AT NIGHT

                It is the long thing
                with fingers and a mouth
                swallowing the moment
                and all the light there is.

                A dreamless ocean
                shallowing at its edge -
                a marsh, an inlet,
                in late fall or early winter
                when the weather changes.

                The night,
                long, but afterwards,
                like my neighbor Annie,
                who after the death of her husband
                of fifty years, the next day
                swept clean the porch
                and set out pots of flowers
                along its edge - geraniums
                to meet a broad and silenced day.

                An abandoned shore
                of arrival and departure,
                the slack tide washing and washing,
                the beach swept clean
                reaching and reaching
                beyond the reach
                of ever seeing.

Sunday, February 24, 2013


            IN THIS TRADE

            By night and by moon
            I am paid no wages
            for my heart.

            By the nub of this light,
            by the stub of this pen,
            between the dark creases
            of my words on this page,
            along the suture that this line is
            of hope and hopelessness,
            while the world counts its coin
            in mad sanity, I ply my illicit trade
            in prayers

            to any lovers
            who might pass this darkened way.

           ©Laurence Holden, 2013

Saturday, February 16, 2013



I opened
this morning to a bluebird,
dead in the fine ashes
left of yesterday’s fire,
soft as down.

The eyes to her world
gone dead, she squints now
at something else
beyond sky and blue
feathered flight.

Such a delicate
illusion of blueness
for which there are
no words.

If there is a word,
it should not
be spoken, but held
somewhere back
of the tongue

in the place
where its song
made a space
within us - to sleep
in our ear, and to curl
in this shell of time


I put on Paul Simon, singing
    “these are the days
    of miracles and wonders”

    “the way we look
    to a distant constellation
    dying in the corner of the sky.”

and find myself
slow dancing around the room
my arms held out
to the beautiful beat of wings,

Sunday, February 3, 2013


First snow, yesterday - surprising gift
Second snow, this morning - a kind absolution

snow to clear the mind
green grass under spruce
to welcome the heart.

© Laurence Holden, 2013

Saturday, February 2, 2013