Apples and Adams

Apples and Adams ~ Flash Fiction

    The energy in the vacuous atmosphere is cosmic spit dots, splashing and zapping around Zemirah, pulling and splitting cells into Adam’s temptations. It crept into her vortex like an unwanted salesman beating down the door confusing her treasured peace of mind with too much information.  She tried to ignore it asking herself could you leave it where it began or is the real question is, will you leave it behind?”

   Zemirah had a full bowl of apples on her wooden farm table inviting her to a light breakfast. She plucked one, in particular, polished it on her shirt till it shined like Christmas then took a crisp bite of crunch -a-luscious, chewing it slowly to express the succulent juice to the far reaches of her tongue.  

   She looked up and saw through her window perched ever so nimbly on a thin branch was a red cardinal with its beak open beckoning her to listen.  Karuna, Karuna he sang as Zemirah stood still hardly breathing so as not to scare him into a feathered fly away.

   The breeze waved the Little Pretty Woman Orienpets to dance along to the melody. It is like that to find that just stopping to look around and within will bring one home. The cells of her body began to awaken, polishing each one in a river of oneness throughout her being into a softer harmony. She was carried away uplifted in the auspicious altered state of reverie and began to sing along.

   “Karuna, Karuna where have you been so long?”

In Pursuit of Wonderment

   I am certain that the waters that flow into the veins of all mankind can feel the moment when awe and wonder reappear. There in a pocket, is a discovered button, a single peppermint scooped up and tucked away for another time when a sweet tooth calls for a refreshing ahah moment. The doorways of enchantment are seen in the corners of a room waiting for redecorating with live red berry vines carefully stapled into the kitchen window. In as much as there are dreams, and blue willow plates set out for tea; there are friends that come to visit.

   On the balcony a man lights a candle in the moonlight, waiting for one encouraging call from a night owl that waits out the late with him in solid hoots that echo through the trees. No, I am not making this up, these moments happened. They are collected in my memory like a living scrapbook. I look up to the stars glinted and faceted as clouds mover through in an opalescent glaze of silver light, constant and unassuming of their sheer natural beauty. It comes to them in the original fire of that which they are born of and now live on in a new form.

   Moving now into the golden turn where nothing is secret and only love prevails to hold us all together… I feel the kindness of lakes slowly swooshing sensually onto the shore. Out in the woods the leaves rustle and bend the tree to dance, “where are you it sings, where have you gone? Are you knotting the tails to the kite? Are you playing the song from the  old 78? Have you read the cereal box today and drank the milk from the bottom of the bowl?”

   Pieces of precious past times are neatly chipped out of my memory box, made into beads that I wear around my ankles to remind me of the time I walked barefoot through the grass.


Artist Lords Prayer

Artist Lords Prayer


Our Father who created Heaven and Earth

Haloed be thy name

Thy kingdoms come as were imagined in Heaven

Deliver us into the arms of God’s goodness

Whose plan is sculpted from His Arts desire

Give us our daily illustrations

Forgive us of our wasted talents

As we forgive that which keeps us apart

Lead us not into self-deprecation

Deliver us from complacency

For Thine Art the endowment, the inspiration

And everlasting splendiferous expression

Of each unique essence

Forever and ever

Aahhhh men

cherry hakui_pe

Sand Poem

Ancient Bells


To believe that you echo me is to hear the bell chimes from long ago.

There is star dust in my flesh.

There are deserts in my eyes, and my feet are lit with a fresh wind where my soul and heart shall mesh

I see you now… it is you that I feel

Still I ask, “Will you stay? Are you real?”

Somewhere a leaf has fallen

It lands on sapphire water

I hear you calling.

I see your footprints in the sand.

The flame is burning the wood

There is no time to be false

For the camel nears the eye

And my days are beautiful in the heart of God

This wave of salvation carries me

From out of the foundation of collective memory, I deepen

In wide expansive spirals, I coast across the sea

These winks from the stars guide my way, as God wants me to know Her endless light.

And in the rocking lull, I wistfully sail above the troubled  fright

Faithfully pray for her angel’s embrace

Here along the sand,  in poems  that lovers write



Spirit of Gaia


   The Gaia Goddess embodies the depths of her femininity, her limitless source of creativity, compassion is her strength. The Divine Feminine is coming into harmony, emerging from the darkness, reclaiming her power. She will no longer be silenced or dehumanized. Her powers of empathy and intuition are being awakened as we integrate the masculine and feminine into our being, in balance once again. The goddess will no longer be suppressed, manipulated, and made inferior to the patriarchal system. She will awaken to her sensual, erotic power, with no fear of the depth of her emotions and passions.

  She is the future, the compassionate visionary; creating a beautiful Golden Age on Gaia where we live in enlightened communities that are  in harmony with the earth and each other.



Harvest Mornings from Northern Bell

Harvest Mornings from Northern Bell by Laura Botsford


    A truck came by with field hands riding in the back; their water coolers already dusty, their eyes resigned to another long hot day of running pickers and tromping cotton down in old iron trailers until the final rays of a hot August sun melted into the orange sweat of night.

   Crop dusters fly overhead circling like large mosquitoes reading themselves into a dive bomb as they showered defoliant on the unsuspecting leaves. Those that grew up here are say, “I love the smell of defoliant in the morning!” The first time I came here was in harvest time. The first thing I smelled was defoliant. I held my breath certain I would be gassed an irreparably damaged. “Won’t we all be poisoned?” I asked Leo. “Oh baby, now that’s the just the perfume of a season coming to a close, he said.”  “It is really strong I hope it doesn’t asphyxiate us.” I covered my nose and mouth hoping somehow the scent of my jasmine hand lotion would filter it out. Ah, no.

   I decided I would be more objective and really explore this new scent upon my olfactory. Underneath it, in a layer all its own, is a musky woody smell. The white earthen carpet is a field of its own kind of Oz poppies that lulls me into a meditative response as incense does.  The once leaves of green are crackling into brown, dropping off leaving only stalks. As more and more pods of cotton pop and fluff out the air is imbued with a mushroom smell, organic and clean, the original cotton of our lives. For a little town there is a lot of activity so early in the day. By sunrise the entire town was hustling to get their crops out. By noon they will have already worked six hours. By sunset they will have clocked in 14 hours; city people have no idea what goes into farming.  It’s seven days a week no holidays, no weekend summer barbeques; no time to just hang out, at least not for us.  Life has to fit in here somewhere the best it can amid the clamoring of making a living and literally putting shirts on the backs of America.

   There are clumps of cotton alongside the roads edge gathered like snowdrifts  where they have flown out of the trailers on their way to the gins. The air is thick with a musky hemp scent as gin trash burns in a haze of morning fog and smoke. I was afraid to breathe. To them it smells lie home and the end of another season.

   For once in my life I wasn’t busy. It is such an enviable status for a woman like me. I had always worked two jobs or more; struggled to pay rent, fought to stay free even in my darkest of economic resources.  But now that I was in Portland, I had time, time to finally do all the things that I had ever wanted; time to write, time to read, and time to compose all those songs that had been piling up like unfolded clothes. It’s funny how when the chance finally came to do these things I was dumb struck by the droning quiet; it’s true, silence is deafening. The rhythms of my previous life were still motivating me like a push pull toy that clacked restlessly across a wooden floor. I had no one to do anything with, nowhere to go with and no one to do anything with. I was stuck here probably for forever and I better find some way to get use to it.

   Meanwhile life goes on in a swift momentum of getting the crops out before it rains. I am impressed with the devotion and care that these farmers give to their crops. It is truly a blessing to us all.

Valentines From Long Ago

My Love Song

                      Memory Wind by Laura Botsford

I am a living memory in every life that ever invited me to join with them to rustle old leaves

Moving them on from autumns’ auburn and golden blush  crinkled and chipped

from  summers well lived.

I have raised the first breath of Spring out from the frozen crystals of winters sleep.

I have been the fragrant scent of flowers basking in the sun of a summer’s garden noon day deep

And I have held you in the coolness of a shaded tree,

protected you as the resting bird from the glaring heat.

Opalescent and green

Transmutable in every season, I stand beside you,  clearly seen

You are not alone

You are my heart’s desire and everything is moving us into a serendipitous surrender

And remember  that we have never sinned

            As we glide in our places

                                                   Effortlessly on  wind

Though time and love escapes into creases of faded letters

and borrowed memories hold us barely together

Bound and bought

There is no weather that will forsake our love, from where  molten candles once burned brightly,

Extinguish not

Quiet Corners

quiet corners

Embrace by Laura Botsford

The treasure of living in little moments

Where in wonder? I protested that I should live accordingly to that which can only be seen?

For I have witnessed miracles that can’t be explained; lived through moments where surely I feared that this eternal grace may die.

Fade from your bones and crumble in shards of splintered mirrors

I am promised a life far greater than I could dream of because I believed

That my caress is conceived in

My blessed friend, who tendered the broken in me when others did not

The lost and sighing

The unattended feeling blind the forgotten freed

That part in us that feared flying.

She is unafraid

Wished into being

Sovereign and sassy

Bold, gentle and classy

My future is in the face of your child,

Love them all well and give them the strength of a sea’s gracious tide

As she lives free

In a civil sort of wild

Preface for Prayers for the Artist




Preface for Prayers for the Artist

by Laura Botsford


   The story of the artist is a breath page from a book found written long ago in the halls of a poet’s dreams, written with nature’s brushes in quiet places where evening subsides into stillness.  The images, and sounds can be found like bells waiting to be rung. Only some find that these apparitions are fleeting, vivid, and then disappears as one will  wondrously awaken, suspended between reality and dreams. It is in this regard that the desire for the ability to hold the flame, and channel the river, is what we have come to talk about in this book. It is where the in-between moments are saved, savored, supported and scribed in detail for a lasting reflection of guidance and support.

   It is also for those that feel that they are lost in the spheres’ of indifference, casually displaced like mismatched shoes and forgotten languages. Because we know that we are sometimes  thought of as outsiders and unwashed social outcasts, flagrant eccentrics who wander down alleys watching for rainbows, mining out art forms that no one seems to care about. We appear as people who are against the grain of “responsible living.”  Prayers for the Artist is for us, the beautiful, the bawdy; the luminous splendiferous original creative souls.

   Our very presence as artists’ moves people, inspires compassion, and desire for change. We embrace emptiness giving it shape, color, music, and dance. It is a sacred trust passed on to us. Without this essential vibrant frequency in our infinite universes, nothing would exist; we would all still be in a shapeless void. The artist is a consummate patron of this belief, drinking from the communion cup, and sharing in the everlasting kiss of continuous creation. In a sweeter world, all creativity would be recognized as an integral part of sustaining the cultural atmospheres. The arts uplift life, and emanates positivity in our  global connectivity.

  This is a collection of poems, essays and prose dedicated to uplifting the co-creator within us all,  where we soul-fully praise the Source from which all creativity flows.

Thy Art Be Done

  Art is a gift fulfilling itself with every living and willing breath of participation in the creative flux; surrendering to its invisible animated workings of profound spiritual electricity is the power of make and believe, the power of attraction. We affirm in our art what we believe and this fortifies us and each other.

   Our alliance with the Creator is a living expression found in the trusted well-spring of an abandoned ego, a place of allowing the artistic touchstone to be translated.  Tendering these new and trembling fingers with a reflective heart, allows us to traverse along the vivid ethers in nuance and highlighted flecks from an infinite depth of field.  Imagination is God’s divine original motion.

   This enthralling echo unravels in the veins along artisans’ row where masters have left traces of their unique vibration. Their vivid emissions flow into the perfect light curves of history, scaled, and designed for individual interpretation by each of us. We as artists are circled, and highlighted in them with our own artful expressions, and by the artistic testimonies we create. We are a witness to the times, and a new covenant on the earth today. We are about the wonder, and freedom of expression that we whole heartedly express. And in this majestic presence of soul, and mind of all its natural velocity, and vast potential we come to serve original creativity by being on its leading edge.

     It is in the countenance of solitudes’ reflective silence, within a good stream of interstellar inspiration, where I’ve discovered the fullest joy. When I am relaxed and allowed the marriage of the inspired, couples with well honed disciplines to take place, is when something surprising transpires exceeding all my expectations.

   Everyone has their own expression. Each artist desires to be respectful of this shared covenant because it doesn’t belong to us. We belong in it. What we bring to the table is our full attention, and by doing so, we are choosing to generate either negative or positive vibrations. The flow is endless; the healing great, the personal reward is a prosperous, colorful living spirit that is educating and uplifting the world.

    To understand that the productivity of our creative actions generates energy into the universe that aids and alters our collective consciousness is the very and vital purpose for us to engage. It matters little whether our works are masterful or not; this is a personal endeavor. What matters is that creating anything that is artistic in nature draws imagination into not only our own lives but also kinesia generates collective unity into the universal atmospheres thereby sustaining the attributes of all mankind with infinite possibilities, hope, progress, healing and harmony.

    We are incense. We are the wind. We are a door into new lands that is reflected everywhere. We define the times with our works, the fashions, the political tambours in music, media, dance and art; they are all sympatric of this collective flux. Once again, if your heart of art is authentic on some level it is connecting everywhere, and makes a difference.

    The clarity we generate is respectfully recognized by the universe, and thereby influences everything with the intent of our creative purpose. It is in itself a generator feeding from its place in the universe back into the environment with social exchanges, political, cultural and spiritual transformations. It doesn’t matter if you are in a studio painting alone or typing out a screenplay in your home, or dancing around your living room; all of it has the butterfly effect and the flutters are felt everywhere.

      Our creativity encourages individuals in self expressive creative risk taking. We have a tremendous transforming impact in our world, and in the ever-changing atmospheres.

   We are the continuation of muse and masters, craft and devotion to art forms that speak to all with the added spark of life; an effect that I call, the Imaginative Cause.

   This process focuses on creating a positive environment where individual experiences in the arts can be shared, and supported by others.  The second kind of community-making we do is through of importance is in arts development. Throughout this little book are affirmations and quotes that I have found helpful in maintaining a balance between the world and what I think of as, us the spaces between – the connecting dots of what is and what could be.

   It is when we offered our lips to drink from the well-spring of God’s Imagination that we have come alive.   It is a Psalm Song to my Creator, for it is God Source that all creativity flows from. It is the universal spirit that weaves us together. It is up to us to decide which of spectrums colors we will blend, what notes to arrange, the steps to take, the form to make that will make our life vibrate brighter.

   I know that we artists and community makers are in need sometimes of a specific kind of encouraging support. It is with this in mind, and from the heart that we have written this book for you.  I hope that in some measure it brings comfort, courage, and inspiration when you feel adrift in a world that makes you feel less a part of.

   You Belong.  You are Important. Your creative energy is needed now, more than ever. There are many who whole heartedly believe in make and believe. You are not alone without connectivity, we are holding hands in this together.

    Your creative thought process generates a field of energy that penetrates that transcends space and time. In this energy all of us can tap in or out with each other.   We can eliminate each other’s struggle, and celebrate each other’s works simply by recognizing the places we see in each other as being valid.

   We are symbolically associated with the word artist. The definition of an artist is broad, but I like this one best.

An artist, A follower of a pursuit in which skill comes by study or practice. It is all-encompassing; the process, the journey, the expression is where we are united. It is in the commitment to widen the world with love and understanding.

  These accomplishments are intimated with a longing to pull oneself inside out in an expression or craft that tells us something about ourselves or the world.

   The voice of our ancestral beginning’s are from the foundations of when time first began, when the universe was created and everything was open to possibility; it is constantly changing. On this day, right now the paint box we choose from is many colors, words and the trumpeting sound of us all.

   Just as we did then, we do now in a different age. The relevancy is juxtaposed to the era in which we live. Curiously now though, the lines of time are blended more so than ever with the flux of global connection, technology and higher consciousness.  No longer do we have to travel far to see a great work of art or read a masterpiece. It is at the touch of our hands, and in the communing whispers of our souls.  Our artistic expressions will bend the walls, dissolve the divisions, and help change the shape of our collective soul.

   Only some find that these apparitions are fleeting, that they are vivid, and then disappears as one wakes from a beautiful definitive dream. We can allow the ability to hold the flame and channel the river that I have come to talk of here in this book. 

Prayers for the Artist is for us, the beautiful, the bawdy; the luminous, splendiferous original creative souls.

 Leaning Church Painting by Tim Sorsdahl

Woman to Woman

    Woman to Woman    by Laura Botsford

I ate of the vine, I ran in the wind, I cried out for wisdom until I had no tears left.

   I looked for love in those that had never kissed the sun to find their own warming peace. Who stayed in shadows because they didn’t know they deserved all that was good.

   They counted money, they bought fancy things and rode in long cars until there were no roads left. They were unaware that wisdom was theirs all along. They left childhood dreams behind in the tall grass; when indeed it was how they saw themselves from the beginning and yet chose to abandon the innocent wonder of it all.

   And why? Because they were told they should, no my dear; it is childlike wonder that always renews, keeps one keen and gladly surrenders a compassionate heart to one in need.

   The pouch of wishes, the rainbows one sees in a sky full of hope, and the ever contemplation of lush avenues of forgotten worlds that tender joyous memories more so than that which was not. This is you, the one with a sparkle of soft indigo in her eyes, the loving one who has hands, and arms always readied  for embrace. There are caverns and causeways that can capture your will, steal your soul. They were carved in times of un-evolved knives of low self esteem, self hatred by wounded knaves of misfortune and to many hardships; the human plight is pithed with these plunderers of joy. You are wise, you are rich with your own experiences, and you have me to talk to.