The Painted Words: A Visual Writing Event (2023)

The Painted Words 2023

A Visual Writing Event in Honor of Susan deWardt

Inspired by Peace Treaties

by Julie Oriet Anya Adams Peace Within

At times I am envious of the elk parading around in deep snow – I wish I could be as comfortable and stoic in such harshness as they appear to be. Every morning I notice how the surrounding cold seems to leave them energized rather than depleted while I listen to their bugling and squeaking, becoming mesmerized by their games of chase in open fields that act as a stage for my viewing. Oh, the beautiful and carefree playfulness the elk exhibit out in the freezing temperatures beneath the dramatic gray skies of winter! As they dance in the wilderness one would never guess how icy it must be by the bare treed woods that shed its colorful decor months ago.

Their performances are inspiring on these frigid days I sit alone by the warm fire staring out this dusty window. Standing proud in their surroundings the elk almost act as owners of the environment rather than as victims to the circumstance. It’s a lesson I yearn to finally master. One day I hope to accept this deep pain, embrace it just as those magnificent beasts seem to have done with the icy landscape and air. If I can let go and find comfort in my own internal unforgiving landscape perhaps I will experience the same freedom I see these creatures flaunt every single day. Then, I will be at peace. Peace with myself. Peace with this life. Peace like the elk. u

The warrior stands on the hill. Casting dark eyes over a changed world A world he recognizes no longer.

Mane, long and flowing in the wind like a river rushing over rocks

He stands tall, chest out, Like his father and grandfather before him. His countenance is graceful and austere and yet inside

He asks himself a question, over and over again: What is this place?

For I do not see

Just the mountains, tall and unafraid

I see a scar, long and jagged, running through, a closed wound.

I miss the time when I could run Through the grass, reds and greens of a wild valley

Untamed, unchallenged, uncharted, and beautiful.

When the sun shone down on the streams and lakes

Glistening and gilded, more precious than the rock

They all came and so greedily searched for That was when it all changed.

When the land became less than what it contained

When the men came with axes and metal and cut A long line through my beautiful kingdom

Inspired by Warrior

By T.D. Kelsey Lyla Baker

When the sounds of people overwhelmed those Of the birds and the wind brushing through the boughs

Of the ghosts of trees long dead and gone. When they looked at me, up and down and saw

Not my long mane

Nor my strong hooves

Nor my wide chest of my forefathers

Nor the look of life in my eyes

But rather a dollar sign that had just enough zeros,

That was when I knew that my time had ended. Time.

Something I didn’t know I had until it was all gone

Until the last dregs of it trickled away like The last stand of a creek in the final days of summer.

Now I look ahead and see not hills and mountains, tall and unafraid

But a world that has been swept out from beneath where I stand.

Now I know

I know like the eagle when he sees a target

Like the mountains know red-orange warmth as the end of a day

I know that in order to keep the spirit I have

I must be a warrior

Wild and free u

Inspired by Spring Break

By Julie Oriet Paul Bonnifield

The Painted Words

A painter. Not just a dabbler of lines and colors. A painter worthy of the name tells a story of lifeand the mysteries of the universe filled with drama and suspense, victory and defeat, hardship and pleasure. So it is with Julie Oriet’s Spring Break.

Itis a harsh land, a wasteland that no one wants, where no city or resort town will thrive. The soil is laced with alkali, the grass is sparse and rank. It is a land of cactus and rattlesnakes filled with poison. Here in the vast sagebrush sea an unforgiving struggle dominates from horizon to horizon and on and on.

The winds, oh, the winds of winter drive sub-zero temperatures deep into the flesh and blood of all living things. The snakes, gophers, and badgers dig deep into winter burrows and sleep, escaping the challenge of mother nature’s harsh mood. In the fall, birds pack up and head south. Winter storms are blizzards, blinding and freezing animals. Only a special creature can survive – the horse.

There in the wasteland the horizon reaches the sky and the vastness of the universe is revealed. The sky. The sky at night is filled with all its wonder of stars and moons, at day with its many shades of blue laced with clouds of many shapes and colors.

On this day, under a sky of promise, with a warm sun on their backs, a band of horses, they seem so small and insignificant, string out to drink fresh water from a small, gentle stream. They may need to find a spot where the winter ice no longer lingers on the bank. Yet, they will drink, pause, and survey the land and sky they call home. Here is where the ruler of the universe chose for them to live. With exceptionally good eye sight they see danger long before danger sees them. Being fleet, agile, and having great endurance, the horse usually avoids any enemy. With powerful jaws and teeth, hooves striking and kicking, they are a match for most predators. Thehorse is naturally designed to withstand harsh winters and drought summers. They travel miles each day for food and water.

With the coming of spring they once again begin to play, fight terrible battles for mares, and enjoy the glories of this vast land of far horizons and enchanting sky. The four seasons of lifeand death have once again turned to the season of rebirth and new hope.

With a brush, a dab of paint, and understanding, the painter told a story exploring the fullness of life and the universe. u

It was a hard winter, not because of the epic snowfall. They say it was a once-in-a-hundred-year kind of year. I think I told you how much I love snow. The snow, a trade-off from our never-ending, groundhog day-like existence in Rwanda, is invigorating. It’s fluffy and soft, almost like a powder but cold, oh so cold, but in a good way. I relish the days when I can roll in the harder snow for the ultimate back scratch. Think snow angels! I know it was so much hotter for you in Kigali than where I lived in the volcanoes of Musanze.

It was hard because I’m getting older and not quite as agile as I used to be when I ran with you and my brother at the cycling center in Rwanda. Those days were so lively. We were all so young and protected from the same people we protected per that special bond we all have with the ones we love. Can you believe I’ve been in the US for over six years? Time flies. I can’t even imagine what it was like for you to live in Nepal during COVID-19.

This year I had an issue with my leg. Not sure how, but I tore a tendon right off the bone. The doctor said it wasn’t an ACL tear, but nonetheless, it cost a fortune, and the rehab was painful. I was stoic; however, in the quiet times when no one was around, I was in so much pain. I never let them know. You know the girl loves me so much, especially after what happened to my brother. She can’t bear to see me in any pain.

But, while they were in there, wouldn’t you know it, they found the Big C. Cancer. Not in one spot but in two. I saw the puffy red face of the girl, so I knew it was terrible news. They removed the one at the same time they fixed my leg, but the other one they couldn’t remove until after my infection healed. Of course, I, the one who is never sick, succumbed to a raging infection that delayed the second surgery by months. They said they got most of it, but the girl’s been googling, and I can tell it’s not good. I think I overheard her say a year or two. She was crying again.

Inspired by Zambia Queen

by Julie Oriet

Kimberly Coats

Coming Full Circle

From Rwanda to the Western U.S.

You know all the feelings about my brother, you and I came rushing back when the girl came home Thursday so animated about a painting, a portrait she said looked just like you! It looked like you, only you are a bit bigger and carry much more presence. But then again, it was a stunning portrait and would have done you justice.

Imagine my utter amazement when you appeared at my ranch two days later. How could it be? I haven’t seen you in over six years! I thought I would never see you again after my brother and I left Rwanda. You are doing so much better. I can tell the anxiety of compound living which took its toll on all of us, is mellowing. That’s what happens when you move to land in the western United States.

As happy as I am to see you, it brings all the memories of my brother flooding back. You know he did not do well when we moved to Wyoming. I think he lost his way a bit and saw everything as a threat in this wide-open expanse of land. Crazy enough, I think he missed being the Cycling Center’s King. He always held such a commanding presence. You look like him. Your beautiful coat. Your size. I can sense him smiling from his dedicated place in the front pasture. The two of you made quite the secret service protection squad in Rwanda!

Who would have thought a Rwandan sighthound like me, the spiritual presence of our fierce South African Boerboel, and you, a born and bred South African Rhodesian Ridgeback, would all reunite in Wyoming? Zulu would have loved to be here with us, but we, Shaka and Akutu, will carry on the legacy of fierce, independent protectors of our people on new lands so far from our birthplace – a true coming full circle reunion. u

The elk in his majesty stands alone. He fears no one as he surveys his home.

Even though many encroach on his kingdom, He will evade them through generations of wisdom.

This is his land. He rules here. He is up to the challenge, he has no peer.

Many have tried to displace him. The hunters that shoot at a whim. Those who want the land he calls his own, And want him to leave his home.

But he will not leave his legacy. His ancestors made this land his destiny.

He is up to the challenge to hold this land for his young,

To keep them from being far flung.

So, he stands alone, day after day. He is not lonely, this is his way.

His destiny is to watch over his herd. He is protective of his mate and those he has fathered.

Inspired by Up to the Challenge

by Julie Oriet

Donna Coletti

His legacy is long. He believes he will always be strong. He is up to the challenge, his legacy will live long. u

Inspired by Blessing of the Beast by Julie

Oriet

Tesh Feinberg (youth - age 13)

Skies of Pomegranate

I went from zoned out to alone with God. As I gazed into the pomegranate skies, Painted with indigo-streaked, periwinkle blue.

A delicate horsehair paintbrush

0n star-strewed canvas

Clouds of bold colors like a violent perfume, spilled

over a golden marshmallow.

A subtle amber light, Reminiscent of healing energy. When the sun is on the very edge of vanishing from one half of the globe to the next.

God’s presence always following It just is. u

Inspired by Out on a Ledge

by Julie Oriet

Harriet Freiberger Out on a Ledge

Every day a precipice – seeing none of what we cannot know wondrous pleasure; fearful fright –each moment lived – an increment of vastness beyond all limits of our comprehension, and yet we somehow sense the need to be a blink within the circles speeding now around our sun, encasing moments into what becomes a universal knowledge shared by all –past retained, sent forward, to be enfolded within our human minds, and then defined as time.

Each of us now lives within its boundaries, too often lost in perilous confronting, steps forward risking total separation – into darkness

And yet

With more than instinct we have and hold within our grasp enlarging wisdom of recorded ages and in that treasure trove of richness we can keep potential brightness of our sun on our ledge u

Who is “king of the jungle?”

African tradition has long held that the Lion is. In Asia, Bengal Tiger lacks the title, but is most feared. However, based on my many years in the jungle – elephants live a long time and, by the way, twice as long as lions or tigers – I’ve witnessed big cats paying us a lot more respect than we pay them. Of course, any one of us outweighs a lion or tiger many times over and, in the jungle, as elsewhere, size determines pecking order. Except for humans. Their puny size, negligeable physical prowess, vulnerabilities to the natural world, and lengthy time to reach maturity, are compensated for by their guns, traps, and control of water sources. But what really tips the scales in their favor are their sheer numbers – everywhere, and growing. Rabbits should be so prolific. That and their craving for our ivory tusks, for which they shoot us at will, with no more thought or concern than if swatting a mosquito or stomping on a cockroach to grill for dinner that night.

Mowanda is the son of a long-time poacher-man and his partner-in-crime wife, whose parenting seldom went beyond yelling at Mowanda to avoid wild animals, snakes, crocodiles, piranhas, and white people – in what order was never said. But, being jungle-savvy, Mowanda never felt seriously threatened by any such menaces. In fact, shortly after turning five, he discovered one of the itinerant elephant troops which constantly migrated through the lands in which he lived. He whooped with delight, then wandered fearlessly into the troop,

Inspired by Shift in the Wind

by T.D. Kelsey

John Grassby King of the Jungle

bumping into and holding on to the giant elephant feet for balance. From time to time the beasts reached their trunks down to gently caress and play with baby Mowanda, who, as elephants do, we forever after remembered.

Given his father’s work, the day inevitably came when Mowanda witnessed in horror and disbelief, his father shooting elephants. When he learned that the sole purpose was to harvest the elephants’ ivory tusks, his break with his parents was terminal. That led him to join a branch of his country’s police charged with stopping the poaching. During training, he learned that an average tusk weighed about 15o pounds. With ivory going for $3,300 per pound, that totaled about a million dollars per elephant, and an annual global ivory trade of about $23 Billion. His duties put him on an unavoidable collision course with his parents. That soon occurred, with a traumatized Mowanda personally arresting them. Convictions led to jail terms, but bribery worked its expeditious magic for cops and robbers alike. Within a few days all was back to “normal” for that time and place.

Assuming such a “resolution” was more rule than exception, that bespoke a culture and mind set in decline and in need of access to a more highly evolved consciousness. To pursue that, I and other elders of our troop concluded that teaming up with Mowanda would create an invaluable inter-species portal to bridge the otherwise gapping abyss between jungle reality and human reality, a never before contemplated undertaking for king of the jungle.

Further evidence of the less than regal nature of cats is that, alone in the animal kingdom, cats love playing with, that is, tormenting, their already mortally wounded and terrified prey before killing and eating it. Since their diet consists entirely of other animals, that’s a lot of tormenting. In contrast, elephants are strictly herbivores, so, while we may strip the land through which we pass of grasses, plants, bushes, roots, small trees, bark, and the like, with sugar cane a favorite, we eat neither other animals nor people.

That leads to the touchy subject of relative intelligence. We have no need for man’s scientific data or studies to declare elephants smarter than cats – our complex thought patterns, social structures and interactions, emotional lives, and communication capabi-lities eclipse those of cats. That begs the question of how/why evolution, operating over eons, has molded cats into having such inherently boring, one-track minds, or, often, into being simply treacherous pains in the ass.

African elephants fear no other animals and, unlike our smaller but still imposing Asian cousins, we cannot be tamed or enslaved to become broken-spirited beasts of burden for man, or timid entertainers in his circuses or parades. We are the largest, smartest, most physically and metaphysically evolved, most powerful, and, if angered, most formidable warrior beasts of all. It is a fait accompli: Lion King is dead; long live Elephant King! u

The incessant buzzing of the cicadas rose over the creaking of the saddle and the sound of the horse’s hooves on the dirt path. Gently rocking in his seat, Champ guided his roan gelding down the path toward the hunting camp. The fall sun was warm on his back and his old Stetson was already damp with sweat. His Winchester rifle fit snugly in its scabbard under his knee as Blue wound his way through the bushes and trees. Jack, his mule begrudgingly came trailing behind. The oilcloth-covered packs on the mule’s sturdy back held the old man’s food for a few days, a rain poncho, some simple bedding, and his ammo for the hunt.

The old cowboy had never been at ease in towns or cities, or around crowds for that matter. He was most at home in the fragrant pines, spruce, and junipers. He felt at peace in the quiet strength of the ageless forest and that peace soaked into his bones now. The primitive hunting camp soon came into view and he called “Walk on” to Old Blue in his baritone voice to urge him on. Grunting as he stiffly lowered his 77 year old body from the saddle to the ground, he mumbled to his horse, “I might be getting too old for this, Blue.” Looking forward to a simple supper and a good night’s sleep, he made mental plans for tomorrow’s hunt. A weather front was due to drop the temps and

Inspired by Heading Home

by Julie Oriet

Michelle Hanson

Heading Home

he had no doubt he’d be heading home with a good sized buck. Champ unloaded the packs from the animals and made sure they were set for the night. Unrolling his sleeping bag onto the rustic bunkbed’s plywood platform, the elderly gent settled in for a longed-for rest.

Dawn’s glow crept in bringing frost on the ground and a milky fog. Saddling up Old Blue in the chill, the old cattleman loaded his rifle, stuck a few more shells in his pocket and rode out of camp. He headed toward a meadow he’d had success in once before. He spotted antler rubs on the nearby trees and two-toed hoof prints, confirming there were deer nearby. Tethering Blue’s reins to a bush, he moved smoothly through the trees, freezing in place as he sighted an eight pointer upwind. As he raised his rifle to his shoulder, a piercing pain mushroomed within his chest. His hands wouldn’t work to grasp the rifle and his vision whirled and faded as he suddenly couldn’t breathe. The hard ground slammed into him and he instantly knew what was coming. Rolling onto his back, Champ opened his eyes. He could see the rising sun chasing away the fog and the majestic treetops reaching upwards to touch the rosy sky. He thought to himself, “I guess I’m heading home today” and he surrendered to the light. u

do we feel it all in our sleep or is it in wakefulness of the snow among the sage as it melts slowly leaving patches of new life in its wake

growing smaller rushing to the near end rivulets running away

water rushing away washing away the river grows fast and loud and now the mind quiets

joyful in the summer rocks shifting thousands of years of lifetime shifting from the dark, cold windy

snow pelting

frozen windshield black night does that mean the brilliant blinding deep blue sky sunny day will inevitably follow

Inspired by Spring Break by

Julie Oriet

Johannah Hildebrand

Driven by That Deep Blue Sky

or is one not needed for the other

are you more alive today because your fingers gripped the wheel eyes squinted legs trembled as you drove the winding roads of the night before sliding across the slick black ice to finally make it to where the snow is melting and the blue sky shines deep tails whip quietly mares nip playfully hoofs dig in search of fresh spring grass the soul rises leaves its resting place the heart and with the sun flows among blood beating through the deep blue of the breath as it mixes with the deep blue

of the sky flying lighting among fresh spring buds and across the backs of warm, wooly coated horses reaching up to the sun coming out of the darkness of a wintery sleep. u

Whisper could sense the awkward shift of weight even as she winced at the familiar sound of leather on leather. The stirrup grabbed at the skirt of the saddle, creaking in protest. Although she could not see him, she knew by way of his ungainly movement that he was once again twisting nervously in the saddle, looking back over his shoulder, tugging needlessly at the braided rope that tethered the packhorses and their cargo to her and the rider, his anxiety on full display. She let out a blast of air from her nostrils – more of a sigh than a snort, signifying her displeasure. Greenhorn, she thought, letting her head droop in a moment of self-pity.

It had already been three days since they left the place where the men dwelt, where the pungent scent of their bodies and their drink mingled with the mud and manure of the filthy streets. She didn’t like to linger there, but it took no more than a day for her rider to gather the supplies needed for the return home. Home, where she belonged, in the high country, with him - the horseman in the black hat. She knew the feel of his leathered palms and the smell of his breath as well as she knew anything, and it had already taken a full sleep longer than it should have to return to him, thanks to her inept rider.

That first day back had started out well enough. They eased away under velvet skies, before the faint glow of daylight tinged the horizon. Even the packhorses, dumb beasts that they were, showed eagerness as she led the trio through the

Inspired by Heading Home

by Julie Oriet Bryan Kennedy

lowlands and ravines, fording the river at just the right places. She didn’t hold their lack of breeding against them, for they seemed suitable enough for the task, but they were merely nags for hire. They would never know what she knew - to belong.

The trouble found them not long after they left the valley floor, having made their way through the tall grasses and wildflowers up to the rocky soil where thistles dotted the arid land. She felt the rider tense up, pulling unmercifully on the reins. She had seen it long before he noticed it - the harmless jackrabbit, not far from the trail, nibbling mindlessly at a clump of sagebrush. Whisper sensed his quickening pulse, the thirst of pursuit emanating from him as he fumbled for his weapon. The jackrabbit sensed it as well… halting, whiskers twitching, sniffing the air. It suddenly bolted and the rider responded in kind, digging his spurs into Whisper’s belly and wrenching the reins as he led the convoy into the fruitless hunt.

Soon after, she found herself over the ridge in a neighboring ravine, riderless. The packhorses were nowhere to be seen; her rider having abandoned the lead before toppling headlong into a thicket while trying to get off a clean shot. Not that she minded. She fought the impulse to go on alone, to the high country where the horseman in the black hat was waiting. But he was depending on her. He made it clear that night he sent her to the valley. Never, in her memory, had they been separated, and his purpose in sending her on

this journey was unclear. But she could sense the urgency - not in his voice, which was measured, its rich baritone uttering soothing syllables. He spoke in this calm way not for her benefit, she knew, but for the tenderfoot he was sending with her. But she detected the unmistakable scent of danger seeping from his pores. She knew what was needed of her; his eyes did the asking as he spoke. ---

She moved on now with a determined gait, the plodding packhorses dutifully following. The rider had pitched camp early the previous night, having rounded up the nags and their scattered cargo. Now he seemed disoriented, continually heading off course. In his moments of inattention she countered, keeping them on the trail until she led them to a safe clearing at nightfall. Overhead, sparkling lights blanketed the sky and she thought of home, and the awaiting horseman - how he depended on her, and she on him. How when they traveled, unlike the journey with this rider, their bodies moved in unison, as if one. How he had put his faith in her to bring them all home.

She stood quietly, waiting for the day’s breaking light. She would not fail him. u

Kelsey

Ted Kwasigroch

Dream Walker

Just shy of ten thousand years it’s been since the man was hexed and destined to live evermore in the unconscious minds of others. His transgression against the Gods now long forgotten

He wanders.

An intrepid traveler, moving by night Through the fluctuating dreamscape

He stays out of sight. Primarily an observer

He seldom interferes

A shamanic-like guide For confronting one’s fears

The symbolic interpretation of his presence has taken many forms.

Appearing in scholarly papers And ancient folklore. An archetypal father

A lifeguard of sorts

A wizardly healer

Some dreamers report

It can be hard to imagine real beings existing only in the dreamspace. But keep a watchful mind’s eye For this familiar face. For when dawn comes around and brings a new day, He remains there.

Sweeping up teeth And fallen out hair. u

Inspired by Dream Walker by T.D.

Feathered without wings… Wind drinker exhaling fire, Born to be a flier!

Star and stripe held high… Champion’s strides made heartbeats rise, Best of dam and sire!

Skylark swift and sure… Grace defeating gravity, Lit our hearts afire!

Four-legged’s finest… Molten chestnut majesty, Showed them all his heels!

Somethingroyal’s ruse… Triple socks teased Triple Crown: = S E C R E T A R I A T = u

Inspired by Life is Good by T.D. Kelsey

Nancie McCormish Requiem For Big Red

Inspired by Peace Treaties

by Julie Oriet

Dagny McKinley

Wolf Songs

My dearest daughter,

Have you already forgotten the tale that helped you fall asleep as a child? When night was created so were stars to bring light to the darkness. So, too, it was with man and wolves that stars were sprinkled in their hearts to bring them light in the darkest of times. I repeated those words over and over in the nights before you were born.

When your father and I moved west, there was nothing more than a sprinkling of cabins, sky and earth. I learned the seasons of the land, the animals and of course, the wolves. I felt small, insignificant, which was as things should be.

Your father and I were sitting on the porch as the sun broke through the clouds washing the world in gold when they began to sing. They have their songs just as we have ours. Songs of love and family, songs of grief and songs of joy. The night filled with voices young and old, practiced and unsure.

I couldn’t help myself. I threw back my head and howled, feeling wild and alive. Your father laughed, holding me close. The world was as perfect as I ever could have imagined.

In 1864, your father joined the army to fight for equal rights for all men. I was left in the shadows of the mountains with 150 acres, three cows, seven chickens and the seed of a new life growing in my belly. There was nothing to do as I watched him ride away but take a deep breath and get about the business of surviving. There were chores to tend to and no one to take care of things but me.

The world shifted from emerald to gold before the storms settled in filling our valley with snow. My belly was ready to burst. At night, exhaustion set in and everything faded away until their song woke me.

When I opened the door, they scattered. I could see their ribs in the moonlight. My cow was barely alive. The alpha crouched down, weighing her options. I grabbed my gun shooting off a warning before I shot my cow. She retreated, eleven wolves trotting behind.

From then on at night I sat up at night waiting. Chores were forgotten. Weeks passed before they returned. They were desperate. So was I. My heart pounded as I opened the door. As she called to her pack, they rose from the shadows. “Don’t make me do this,” I begged.

She had mouths to feed. We both had mouths to feed.

I prayed she would teach them as I singled out a yearling I had watched grow from a wobbling pup. She sensed my hesitation, moving closer, baring her teeth. I pulled the trigger.

I don’t know how long I stood there before the song began, the song of loss that we have all sung in our own hearts. They surrounded the pup in a circle, nudging the still body, looking to the sky, knowing something beautiful had been taken from the world. My heart cracked, light draining from it.

The next day I dragged the carcass to the edge of the property and left him to the elements. You came not long after, strong and curious. Through your eyes I saw the world anew. You in my arms, you in my heart. Your love saved me. Sometimes we would visit his body. I’m not sure why.

The snows melted and before the blink of an eye you were crawling, then walking, helping no matter what I was doing. We were washing sheets when dust rose on the horizon and your father rode back into our lives.

Silence filled our days as he disappeared into the mountains for longer and longer periods of time. There were too many things we wished we hadn’t seen. Neither of us could make peace with them, or each other. I wondered if your father would ever really come back to us.

Late one summer’s eve, I saw her again, alone. She sniffed at the bones of her child. As I stood to find you, she began a song of survival. Behind me I heard an unsure howl answering. Your head was tilted back. The stars sparkled in my heart. From the mountains your father’s voice joined in.

He was coming home. We were all coming home.

Never forget the stars in your own heart, my child, they are with you always.

Love,

Mother u

Inspired by Morocco Blue by Julie

Oriet

Denise McManus

When visiting the Steamboat Art Museum for a wonderful opening, I soon saw a painting that no way could I resist or not know where it was painted.

The majestic white building was like others I have seen, but it was the pure blue sky that held my attention. There is something about the blue of the Moroccan sky whether in the city or against the orange sands of the Sahara Desert that captures one’s soul. u

Inspired by foundry process photographs of T.D. Kelsey’s work

Joseph McManus

That Flash of Movement

As an adjunct to T. D. Kelsey’s sculpture exhibition, I was treated to fourteen photos presenting the artist’s progression from soft clay on wire scaffold, through two molding stages and then crowned by the chemistry of patination.

Years ago, I was a member of a local science club named “Archimedes Circle” founded by Tom Horth. We resolved to learn more about the sculpting process. Tom arranged for a visit to a nearby working foundry, The New England Sculpture Service, located in Chelsea, Massachusetts. The foundry had reserved a teaching room for our visit to demonstrate the many production stages culminating with the

ancient metal casting method known as the lost-wax process. Later we watched from a safe distance as the artists and technical staff revealed their customized fabrication work. That afternoon we witnessed this amazing art form move from creation including the two molding procedures to the patina room where the color magic happens. The artist was expected to be present at the foundry to collaborate with staff not only to celebrate the many thrilling progression stages but also to console one another during the sobering points of rework. Now when I view a bronze sculpture at the Steamboat Art Museum, I see that flash of movement, visually engrossing and daring to be touched. u

Inspired by Morocco Blue

by Julie Oriet Mandy Miller

Moroccan Blues

It’s the end of the world, Tangier. Don’t you feel it, Bill?

– Anonymous to William S. Burroughs, Tangier, 1955

International Zone, Tangier

Kit perches on the cobalt zellij step, the cool tile a welcome relief from the infernal heat. She lifts her eyes to the night sky, blue-black like a bruise shot through with stars and gunfire.

The ping of yet another bullet ricocheting off the garden wall. Soon the nationalist guerrillas will send the colonial forces packing back across the Strait of Gibraltar. But, for now, the violent volley of occupation and retaliation continues as those who care little struggle to feed families and live another day.

The hollow crack of baton against skull.

Someone keening like a wounded animal.

Kit secures the book close to her heart, deep within the folds of her djellaba. Soon, the lycée’s doors will

be closed to girls who will return to covering their faces and reading in secret. That female beauty and knowledge will become again the twin paragons of subversion is ironic indeed. Not long ago, the Medina was crawling with an army of expatriate scribblers who raised subversion to an art form with their kif and their whiskey, their heady ideas, their outrageous behavior in service of their personal freedoms and fictitious friends. Burroughs and The Beats and Capote. And Bowles, of course. They all came to this depraved Eden. Real royalty and pedantic poseurs, they came too, fleeing civility or the law or whatever else needed leaving behind. Then, when the fighting started, they left us behind too, beating a retreat to wherever their ilk had the luxury of being born. After all, what fun is a revolution with real bullets? Those waged with words are much safer.

Familiar fragrances – cumin and clove, turmeric and saffron – waft from the kitchen window followed by her mother’s voice, rapier sharp. “Kitana, come inside. It’s too dangerous.”

“Coming, Mama,” she replies, but doesn’t mean it. Not that her mother isn’t correct. Yesterday’s newspaper said hundreds became canon fodder in

Casablanca at the hands of those bent on repossessing this desolate land of sand and sorrow from the men they demonize as “voracious infidels.”

She draws her hood tight around her pale face concealing her aquamarine eyes, her very features her mother’s definition of danger. Tangier may be a city that keeps its secrets, but a secret cannot be kept when it is written on the skin the color of the enemy’s.

Another hail of bullets popping. A woman wails.

Still, Kit remains, keeping company with the shadow, his eyes the color of the sea, cigarette dangling from his pale lips, suit jacket slung over his shoulder like one of his raffish rogues. Her mother says he always wore indigo suits from Paris, that he’d taken her there, that she’d seen a woman on the Left Bank wearing a man’s suit, hair cropped like a boy’s. Kit’s heart aches at the thought of his ghost receding into the darkness forever, moving off the desert stage to safety, returning home with tales to tell. Or lies – the truth is simply too incredible, too dangerous.

“Kitana! Enough of your madness. Come inside!”

She makes to stand, but a violent force propels her backwards, arms and legs sprawling like pick-up sticks.

She raises herself on an elbow and squints at his place. Nothing now but a cloud of dust.

Arms cradling her trembling body. “I will keep you safe, my child. ”

With a filthy finger, Kit wipes her mother’s cheeks until her tears form an onyx streak. “Yes, Mama.”

Together, they sit, bodies draped over each other like shields, until the city beyond the walls falls silent. Only then does Kit notice the book splayed open at her feet, spine broken, pages ragged. And

the lone bullet lodged in the back cover that had pressed against her heart only minutes before.

Her mother stares at the ravaged cover – an image of a man walking away from a sun bleached walled city on a hill, his form casting a long shadow, a cerulean sky overhead. “I am so sorry, my love.”

“Do not be. Regret changes nothing.”

Kit picks up the book and sees the title, like her, was spared the fire.

“The Sheltering Sky,” she whispers. “How beautiful.”

Her mother shifts her hardening gaze to the inky shadows and starts to weep.

Kit smooths a hand over the author’s name. She does not speak it aloud, however. That would be too dangerous. u

Note: Massai names have meanings. The ones used in this story are listed below.

Female names:

Naserian – The peaceful one. Given to one who loves and initiates peace among the community.

Nalangu – The name refers to those who come from another tribe.

Nalutuesha – One who is born while it’s raining.

Namunyak – The lucky one.

Male name:

Lemayian – The blessd one

“I don’t care. I’m not going.”

“You don’t have a choice. The Chief’s son is getting married. We all have to go.”

“Aunt Nalangu. Tell her. Tell her. I can’t go.”

Nalangu remained silent and turned away. Her mother, Naserian turned to her and said, “Nalutuesha. Stop acting like a child! You’re going and that’s all there is to it.”

“But Mom. You don’t understand. Lemayian loves me not Namunyak. He’s only marrying her because her father’s dowry is huge and his father insisted on it.”

Inspired by In Their Finest

by Julie Oriet

Cesare Rosati

In

Their

Finest

Her mother turned away, reached a hand up and spun her sister-in-law around to face her.

“You knew about this? You knew she’s been seeing Lemayian?”

Nalangu lowered her eyes and whispered, “Yes.”

“And you filled her head with the possibility of being able to marry the Chief’s son knowing that she has no dowry?”

“But they’re in love.”

“You’re a woman. You know how this world works. You gave up everything; your family and your tribe to marry my brother.”

“Yes. And I’d do it again because we loved each other.”

“You should have told me when you found out what was going on.”

Again, Nalangu lowered her head. Naserian turned back to her daughter and said, “Get dressed! We’re all going to the wedding, as is required. I’ll expect to see you dressed in your finest.” And without missing a beat, she turned to Nalangu and added, “You too.”

An hour later they left their home and walked to the ceremony dressed in their finest, but looking like three women going to a funeral. u

Inspired by Wilderness Sentinels by Julie Oriet

Erika Sexton - Age 17

I turn and stare into the valley below Plains that can’t contaminate me with their darkness

Anymore

Glare at me from afar

I was tired of the reminders

Of what once was I hate missing what I had

Though I no longer desire it

I yearn for it

A thirst now unquenchable miles from the river

I am a panting dog

I am not theirs

And they are not mine

I can never go back!

I can never go back!

I can bite and scratch and beg but I can never go back!

Their screams and shouting can’t reach me

Their loudness

Accompanied by subtle manipulation

And taunting

That seethed into my skin

Burrowing deep

Inside my veins

And swimming in my blood

I am in charge of my own now

My strength

My forgiveness

My love

Here I am no longer an enemy

There is nothing that can be stolen

My vigilance can ease

I don’t realize it, but one day, this too will be the past And I will come to mourn it

Memories linger through the roots

I wonder if this trail has felt the same pain as mine

Does the earth mourn her pain too?

If I can not be held in comfort

Let the grass grow over my limbs

Let me lay till my body decomposes

So I can feel the earth breathe

So I can take a breath I’ve never had

Maybe then I can relax into the sorrows of everything I’ve lost

Be freed from the aching

The agony of consciousness

I will be taken into her depths with an overwhelming abundance of love

My wounds will heal over and my scars will fade

The roots will bound me in chanting

You are loved!

You are loved!

You are loved!

Over and over and over until nothing of hate resides

Until I can stand and shift with the trees instead of fighting the wind

To where my feet will stay planted and I will shine as bright as the sun gleaming onto my skin

Maybe then rugged edges will soften

Harshness will fade

I will no longer have to survive clinging to broken branches

Maybe then I will be at peace u

Inspired by Spring Break by

Julie Oriet

Barbara Sparks

Wild Horses Couldn’t Drag Me Away (working title)

“The days are getting longer, the light a little brighter. The ground muddy with the slow melt. I read the greening sagebrush, the receding snow with my heart lifting. It is finally time.

Time to make our way to Sand River Basin; as if a memo has been sent.

SAVE THE DATE! OUR RIVER IS FLOWING. I can hear a whisper of rushing water in the far distance.

I made it through my third winter, a little worse for wear. With snow depths deeper than usual it was hard to find enough to eat. My band mates, especially Kirby and Juggernaut, were true winter heroes leading us to sheltered grasses in the woods; otherwise, none of us would have survived. I wear my sagging hide best I can but I feel my shoulder bones jutting north.

It is still a long trek to the river. Plodding ankle deep snow we move west, the last of brisk icy wind in our faces, the warm spring sun on our backs. The much-needed water and smell of new growth grasses fill me with hope.

My band will not be the only one at the river basin. The swollen river is a seasonal magnet for the bands of horses in the area. It is a resting place. Soon I will see old friends and a few competitors I have learned to avoid when possible. Will Tripoli, the old stallion with his matted gray mane, have made it through the winter? How many new colts will there be? I look forward to hearing about the

winter struggles and triumphs of others.

Ruby, a young sorrel, stands across the river, the bright sun reflecting off her auburn coat. She is a member of a small band that usually grazes further west. Ruby holds her head high, walks confidently to the rivers edge. Her legs look strong, her mane and tail clean. She is a graceful lady.

I walk to the river opposite her as she drinks the cold spring water. Does she know I am here watching her? Will she acknowledge me this year? She knows who I am.

She birthed our colt last season. We were impetuous, our childhood lives had been easy; I gave her everything she wanted. Soft bedding spots, shady alcoves for privacy, succulent grasses, nuzzling moments. But, Ruby returned to her band.

The bond was broken; I have my freedom. I have shed many tears over this graceless lady. Still I do not feel bitter or unkind. As the day wears on and shadows deepen over the river, I take solace that Ruby stands alone. I call to her; join me at the edge of the gathered bands of horses.

It may seem a like long shot but I cannot let her slide out of my life. Wild horses couldn’t drag me away. u

In loving memory of Susan deWardt who inspired us all

The Painted Words, formerly called Ekphrasis, was inspired by the Greek word for works of art produced as a rhetorical exercise, It is a vivid, often dramatic, verbal description of a visual work of art, either real or imagined.

The Painted Words is produced annually by the Steamboat Art Museum, 807 Lincoln Ave., Steamboat Springs, CO 80487. No portion of the contents may be reproduced in any manner without the written permission of the publisher. All rights reserved.