Category Archives: Poetry

Beautiful White Horse…

05 Thursday Mar 2026

Posted by in Animals, Art, beautiful, Nature, Painting, Poetry, watercolor

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© Joan Currie. My White Horse watercolor. Reference photo by Jane Davies.


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.

Beautiful First Iris, too…

26 Thursday Feb 2026

Posted by in Art, beautiful, Flowers, Garden, Nature, Poetry, Reflections, watercolor

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Bearded Iris by A.M.S. Merian that I colorized to match my dark purple one.


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.

Beautiful First Mover…

19 Thursday Feb 2026

Posted by in Art, Garden, Nature, Poetry, Reflections, watercolor

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Mourning Iris by E.D. Ehret that I colorized to match the dark purple iris from my garden.


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.

© Joan Currie – My continuous line drawing of the iris.

Beautiful Valentine…

12 Thursday Feb 2026

Posted by in Art, beautiful, Daily Life, Family, Love, Mother, Mother-Child, Poetry, Reflections, Relationships, Valentine's Day

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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!

Beautiful Maker…

05 Thursday Feb 2026

Posted by in 100 Day Creative Challenge, beautiful, Needlepoint, Poetry, Reflections, Winter, Writing

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© Joan Currie – My “Winter” needlepoint sewn into a cushion.


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.

Beautiful Puzzling…

28 Wednesday Jan 2026

Posted by in beautiful, Daily Life, Fashion, Lauren DiMarco, Photography, Poetry, Reflections

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© Derick Rodas. My daughter, Lauren, in contemplation,

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.

Beautiful Getting My Hands Dirty…

21 Wednesday Jan 2026

Posted by in Art, Drawing, Garden, Home, Nature, Painting, Poetry, Reflections, watercolor, Writing

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© Joan Currie – Detail of my succulent garden.


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

A Hard Draw…

14 Wednesday Jan 2026

Posted by in Art, Drawing, Poetry, Reflections, Relationships

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© Joan Currie – A Hard Draw Man by Joan Currie (continuous lines drawing)


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.

Beautiful Winter White…

07 Wednesday Jan 2026

Posted by in beautiful, Lauren DiMarco, Poetry, Reflections, Snow, Winter

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©Joan Currie – My daughter, Lauren, enveloped in the snow.


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?

Beautiful New List for 2026:

31 Wednesday Dec 2025

Posted by in beautiful, Daily Life, New Year's Resolutions, Photography, Poetry, Reflections

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© Joan Currie – New Horizons


My List
By Joan Currie

At the end of the year I unfold the paper
like a map I once trusted.
The old words look back at me-
learn this, finish that,
be better, be faster, be more.

I measure the year with a thin ruler:
checkmarks, omissions,
the ache of time spent wandering
where I thought I should have
marched.
I grieve the unused hours,
The bright mornings laid down
carelessly,
as if life were a ledger
and I had failed to balance it.

But this year refuses such accounting.
It rises instead like a bird startled
from tall grass-
sudden, radiant, alive.

How could I have predicted it?
The laughter that came unannounced.
The days so full they tipped over.
The quiet happiness that arrived
without a task list,
sat beside me,
and stayed.

None of it can be crossed off.
None of it fits in neat verbs.
and yet – how true it all was.
How necessary.

So I make a different kind of list now.
I write: notice everything.
I write: follow that which warms the heart.
I write: say yes when joy knocks softly,
and listen when it calls loudly.

Let the new year be generous in ways
I cannot plan.
Let happiness be my work,
and attention my devotion.

I fold the paper gently.
Outside, something begins anew.

Wishing you all the very best for 2026!