I started a new approach with mandalas this year. The art is more representational rather than the geometric abstracts I have been doing. My cousin Vince, who is also an artist (great wildlife: see http://vincepagliaroli.vpweb.com) categorized them as Zen/Almish/New Wave/Retro. I guess that means it’s hard to say what they are! In designing them I begin with some familiar image and go from there. I love making them as it is a meditation for me that quiets my busy mind. I am not a draftsman or illustrator and they all have a primitive look to them. The medium is ink and markers on Bristol board. The colors are a little more vivid than shown. To see more examples, go to http://MarieTaylorArt.wordpress.com and click on “New Mandalas” on the top menu bar.
On the second day after the storm
that drove the rain
in slanting horizontal bands
outside the window,
all is calm.
The creek whose waters
ran up and over its banks
to touch the brim of the gully
in which it resides, is now confined
and at peace.
The trees which bowed beneath
the power of the wind,
branches kneeling in submission,
now stand straight, limbs glistening
with kisses of small green buds.
The birds which were absent
from telephone lines and trees
now emerge singing
from bushes to preen their feathers
in the watery sunshine.
Dandelions are now scattered,
like a broken necklace,
across the chartreuse grass
while the dark pines, aloof,
The sky wears pale blue
on its cheeks and now smiles lightly
at passers-by who wear hats
and walk briskly and breathe deeply
in this chill February air.
We have been forewarned,
and this morning await inches
of drought-quenching rain.
The weekend, they say,
will have little sunshine
as rivers and streams and fields
gulp down this manna from heaven.
The morning sky is sullen,
bruised with blotchy greys.
Traveling north and east,
the wind is spoiling for a fight
like a young man hopped up on beer
and cigarettes and the smiles of a sexy girl.
The spring trees sporting white and pink
blossoms, two, three, four weeks
ahead of season may be stripped
of their finery before day’s end.
The neighborhood cat who stops by each morning
for a quick breakfast has already come
and gone, his patchy grey and white coat
reflecting the sky above.
The air is damp with bone-aching coolness
as I sit near the window and look out,
heating pad alternating between knees and shoulder.
The sky grows dark, a rumble and growl
of thunder, until one, then two rain drops fall,
announcing the imminent arrival of the storm king.