12 Thursday Mar 2026
Posted in Art, Flowers, Nature, Painting, watercolor
Tags
beautiful, Garden, magnolia, magnolia blossom, Nature, Poetry, watercolor
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, Reflections, Garden, Poetry, watercolor, Nature
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!
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.
16 Sunday Mar 2025
Posted in Art, beautiful, Birds, Poetry, Reflections, watercolor, World peace
Tags
Wisdom in Turbulent Times by Joan Currie
The air splinters like glass–
I perch on a gnarled limb, a solitary watcher
in the fractured gloom of night,
where bitter winds gnash at a starless sky.
Below, the earth trembles with despair,
its pulse a staccato of sorrow, as the cacophony
of man’s ruin echoes through my ancient eyes.
I, the silent sentinel of twilight, bear witness
to hearts ensnared in an endless dispute.
I drift through fractured hours,
each moment a shard of broken light,
and in the rustle of dying leaves I hear
the desperate murmur of questions
scraping at the marrow of human intent.
I long for a guiding voice–
a call as steady and resolute as my own nocturnal hymn–
that might reach the steely hearts of
our world’s posturing masters,
whose empty grandstanding leaves their people trembling
at the ominous specter of what is to come.
Yet wisdom is never tender;
it is honed by the relentless edges of despair,
etched in the scars of time and the silent ache of the dark.
I, who have seen centuries unfold beneath these ageless stars,
offer my muted counsel to the chaos below.
I am afraid, yet I remain–a keeper of ancient truth–
praying that, in the echo of my solemn hoots,
a spark of reason my be kindled.
May their voices rise, clear and fierce as the cry of the night owl,
to lead us from the tempest and transform shattered hours into
the promise of a new dawn.
I pray for world peace.
14 Friday Feb 2025
Posted in Art, Birds, Gouache, Love, Painting, Poetry, Relationships, Valentine's Day
A Love Worth Waiting For... by Joan Currie
I once believed in fairy tales, in love so vast, so bright,
A love that soared on golden wings and lit the darkest night.
I dreamed of hands that knew my own, of hearts that beat the same,
Of whispered vows in starlit hush, of love that burned like flame.
Yet time wove shadows in my path, and love became a ghost,
A wistful wish, a fleeting dream, a ship without a coast.
I wandered through the quiet years, through echoes soft and thin,
Not knowing love was biding time, still waiting to begin.
And then—you came, like summer rain, like dawn upon the sea,
A love so deep, so fierce, so true, it woke the soul in me.
No fleeting spark, no passing storm, no whisper in the air,
But something strong as ancient oaks, as certain as a prayer.
The love of ballads, sonnets bright, the love that poets weave,
The love of kings and wayard knights, of hearts that won’t deceive.
A love where laughter, wild and free, is laced with tender sighs,
Where every glance is poetry, where longing never dies.
So here we stand, with hands entwined, where fate and dreams align,
A love reborn, a tale retold—forever yours and mine.
No more a wish, no more a ghost, no more a fleeting glance,
But love, at last, as it should be—our fated, timeless dance.
I have found love again! I am so grateful for each and every glorious moment we spend together!
Happy Valentines’s Day to all of you! ❤️
31 Tuesday Dec 2024
Posted in Art, Art studio, beautiful, Family, Gouache, New Year 2025, Poetry, Reflections, Winter
Tags
Art, beautiful, Family, Gouache, Last day of the year, New Year 2025, Poetry, Winter
The Last Day of the Year by Joan Currie
On the pond where frost wove its glimmering thread,
Round and round on the ice, so much laughter was spread.
My father on one side, my mother’s warm hand,
Together we skated through winter’s command.
The cold held no power, our joy burned so bright,
Each smile a lantern in the soft fading light.
My father, a hockey fan quick on his feet,
My mother, a skater whose grace was complete.
Their spirit of wonder still dances in me,
Like ripples of moonlight on a shimmering sea.
Though time has now carried their voices away,
Their love is a gift I unwrap every day.
As the year softly closes, I cherish the thought,
Of the laughter and lessons their living had taught.
I hope that my children will carry their flame,
And feel in their hearts that same joyous refrain!
A toast to the the beauty of years that have passed,
To moments of love that forever will last.
On this last day of the year, as memories shine,
I feel their hands guiding, still holding to mine.
My best wishes to you for 2025! Happy New Year! ❤️
Satin & Sand 