12 Thursday Mar 2026
Posted in Art, Flowers, Nature, Painting, watercolor
Tags
Garden, beautiful, Poetry, watercolor, Nature, magnolia, magnolia blossom
Magnolia Blossom by Joan Currie
You have bloomed first
in my back garden–
O sovereign of pale flame.
Your receptacle, a golden crown,
royal, resplendent;
your lavish velvet robes,
pallid yet proud, spread wide
and stained with magenta
all around you.
Astonishing us–
magnificent, insolent–
you parade your brief glory.
05 Thursday Mar 2026
White Horses by Eleanor Farjeon
Count the white horses you meet on the way,
Count the white horses, child day after day,
Keep a wish ready for wishing – if you
Wish on the ninth horse, your wish will come true.
I saw a white horse at the end of the lane,
I saw a white horse canter down by the shore,
I saw a white horse that was drawing a wain,
And one drinking out of a tough: that made four.
I saw a white horse gallop over the down,
I saw a white horse looking over a gate,
I saw a white horse on the way into town,
And one on the way coming back: that made eight.
But oh for the ninth one: where he tossed his mane,
And cantered and galloped and whinnied and swished
His silky white tail, I went looking in vain,
And the wish I had ready could never be wished.
Count the white horses you meet on the way,
Count the white horses, child, day after day,
Keep a wish read for wishing – if you
Wish on the ninth horse, your wish will come true.
26 Thursday Feb 2026
Posted in Art, beautiful, Flowers, Garden, Nature, Poetry, Reflections, watercolor
The First Iris by Joan Currie
You rose before the others
and seized the light entire.
Brazen in purple,
you flung your velvet wide
and drank the sun in reckless drafts
as though it had been poured
for you alone.
Such extravagance is brief.
Already the hem of your robe
thins into air;
already the proud throat slackens,
gold dimming in its beard.
You, who would not share the morning,
shall be first brought low–
first to stain the earth
with the wreckage of your splendor.
And they–
patient, indistinct–
will rise in measured turn
and keep their modest light
long after yours is spent.
19 Thursday Feb 2026
Posted in Art, Garden, Nature, Poetry, Reflections, watercolor
Tags
Beauty, Continuing line drawing, Garden, Iris, Poetry, Post a week poetry challenge, Tiffany, watercolor
First Mover by Joan Currie
When the weather is right–
not warm, not cold,
but something the earth understands–
a single iris
pushes through the soil.
No announcement.
Just the lifted stem, urgent with bloom,
certain of itself,
taking the light
as if it had been called.
Soon the hyacinths,
the daffodils, the crocuses,
will follow.
But for now
it stands alone-
and I wonder
about the others
still folded in darkness,
waiting for their hour.
12 Thursday Feb 2026
Posted in Art, beautiful, Daily Life, Family, Love, Mother, Mother-Child, Poetry, Reflections, Relationships, Valentine's Day
Mary Cassatt, The Child’s Bath, c. 1880. Los Angeles County Museum of Art
My Valentine by Joan Currie
Years now
from sleepless nights–
hands testing the warmth
of foreheads
and bath water,
kisses pressed
to crowns
after unsteady tumbles,
singing rhymes,
reciting ABCs,
pushing the swing
higher–higher–
and somehow,
by grace or miracle
they arrived at adulthood.
Even now,
my youngest daughter hands me a brush,
turns her back,
asks for a French braid,
a twist in her long chestnut hair–
as if I am still
the only one
who can do it just right.
Sometimes she asks me
to redo it.
Not because it is wrong.
But because she likes
the slow drawing of bristles,
the deep, patient strokes through
her thick hair,
the quiet nearness–
to have her hair brushed
by her mother
one more time.
Happy Valentines Day!
05 Thursday Feb 2026
Posted in 100 Day Creative Challenge, beautiful, Needlepoint, Poetry, Reflections, Winter, Writing
I Am a Maker by Joan Currie
I love to behold beauty
in all its forms,
especially what the world offers
freely…
Rose-tinged sunrises,
a dragonfly resting on my hand,
cats’ eyes at dusk,
stones made smooth enough to skip.
But there is something nearly sacred
in making:
entering that quiet realm
where the hands know
what the mind cannot utter.
Nothing compares
to the birthing of my children,
those ultimate acts of making.
Still I take comfort in smaller
labors:
strands of embroidery floss,
skeins of wool,
tubes and palettes of paint.
And the ability to shape them
into something that lasts–
sometimes admired, worn or passed on,
carrying the warmth
of the hands that made it.
28 Wednesday Jan 2026
Posted in beautiful, Daily Life, Fashion, Lauren DiMarco, Photography, Poetry, Reflections
Puzzling by Joan Currie
I sit before a spill
of a thousand pieces
trying to make order–
edges, colors, shapes:
an airplane, little man, Shrek,
Swiss cheese punched with holes…
It hardly matters.
The pieces are finite,
and even if a few are lost
the picture will declare itself
in time.
But in life–
I will never know the count.
The shapes keep changing,
colors fade as I reach for them.
I turn my mind this way
and that, seeking a fit,
some clear design.
Still, the table
remains scattered.
I learn to live beside it.
The clarity I seek
remains elusive.
21 Wednesday Jan 2026
Posted in Art, Drawing, Garden, Home, Nature, Painting, Poetry, Reflections, watercolor, Writing
Tags
beautiful, continuous drawing, Garden, garden cuttings, garden in winter, succulents, tending a garden, watercolor
Getting My Hands Dirty by Joan Currie
I dug my hands into the cold, moist
soil,
dark with iron-stained oak leaves,
geraniums collapsed into themselves,
the soft wreckage of mulch
returning to its first idea.
There were celandine and verdigris
succulents stained with bluish grey,
swollen with the calm confidence
of continuing.
They rose from cuttings
I gathered last season–
still busy, even now,
making life.
As I knelt there, I thought–
does the one who never tends a plant
miss this small astonishment,
this unannounced miracle,
or is it enough
to stand back,
hands clean,
and love the beauty
without knowing
how deeply it must be touched
to appear?
© Joan Currie – Succulents – continuous drawing
14 Wednesday Jan 2026
Posted in Art, Drawing, Poetry, Reflections, Relationships
A Hard Draw by Joan Currie
He offered his arm
to the phlebotomist,
on a pale altar.
The limb was tapped,
warmed, positioned.
Nothing rose.
The vein refused.
More jabs, more prodding.
A butterfly needle,
its tiny cannula
tracking the long geography
of both arms,
as if searching for water
in a punished land.
As last–
a thimbleful of dark crimson,
just enough
to satisfy the panel.
No surprise:
he was like his veins–
sealed off, hoarding
whatever pulse lay hidden.
No flicker, no sound.
His face held
the dry stare
of a camel’s head
on a spike in the Medina.
His latest partner
offered soothing caresses,
soft words,
leaned towards his corpse.
All of it wasted.
He recoiled,
gave up nothing.
Once she thought
she saw a glint–
a slight dilation of the eye.
It was enough
for her to imagine goodness
where none lived.
She learned,
in time,
and left.
07 Wednesday Jan 2026
Posted in beautiful, Lauren DiMarco, Poetry, Reflections, Snow, Winter
Tags
beautiful, Clarity, Lauren DiMarco, Photography, Snow, snow storm, white, Winter
In White Weather
by Joan Currie
The trail vanished.
Wind rushed past like an animal
that did not see me.
Snow came harder, then harder–
the world narrowed to breath,
to the small miracle of standing.
I lifted my hands
and they disappeared.
Nothing stayed long enough
to be named.
The storm had its own mind,
and I was inside it.
Then–listen–
something opened.
Not the sky.
Not the snow.
But the place in me
that waits for silence
before it speaks.
Ideas arrived gently,
as they do under water,
or in the shower,
clear and shining,
each one saying:
Here. This is yours.
I stayed awhile
in the great unseeing,
learning what the storm knows:
that sometimes
not being able to see
makes things more visible–
the true shape of a thought,
the calm beneath urgency,
the joy of simply being here.
When I turned back,
the lodge glowed like a promise–
lamplight, voices, heat.
I carried with me
what the white weather gave:
a rinsed mind,
a quiet heart,
and the bright understanding
that clarity does not always arrive
in light.
Where or how do you find clarity?
Satin & Sand 