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.

Little Bird Books

Little Bird Books

Little Bird Books

Laura Botsford writes her books with a beseeching belief in possibility. She writes with children,  and her voice blends their wonder-working stories into enchanting tales that are moral adventure tales of goodness.  The stories she writes with children are luminescent, inspired with poetic nuance. She specially writes them in a tambour for reading out loud.  Laura’s spirituality is refreshing, deeply felt, charmingly clear and truly in step with the genre of authors such as C.S. Lewis and Frank L Baum.

“This is a fantastic concept — having children create their own books within a structured program that, nevertheless, permits them to utilize every aspect of their imagination and then experience the great satisfaction of seeing their creations materialize to be shared by others.” Lois Duncan – Author

“Laura displayed the competence and creativity that have marked her professional involvement in our community.  She has established a reputation as an extremely capable, effective coordinator, public relations person, and a friend. Laura has the capacity to work independently if needed.  She can be entrusted with difficult, long-term assignments, knowing that they will be completed in a thorough and efficient manner.”  Linda Armour – Lakeside High School Principal

Links for Laura Botsford

*  President of non-profit Arts organization in the rural delta called Neverlands Inc. * Artist in Education with the Arkansas Arts Council

* Website

* Laura Botsford for Neverlands Inc. on Word press
* Children’s Books on Blurb – Unicorn Giraffe

Up Coming Release of Poet Streets CD in Spring 0f 2014

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

The Author Extension Community

Connect the dots, explore the literary spheres and discover this community of writers.

Shannon A Thompson's avatarShannon A. Thompson

It’s a new year and so much has changed already. My publisher – AEC Stellar Publishing, Inc. – has cranked its gears and remodeled itself for the future. Instead of being a simple publisher, we are now an open and growing community of writers, cover artists, and editors supporting one another. You don’t have to be published by AEC or spend money to participate. The website is designed for everyone to connect in one place. This website is for you, and hopefully, by the end of this piece, you’ll want to check out The Author Extension Community and/or join it. It’s a great place for authors to support one another as well as readers to come and meet them. We simply need people to help us spread the word, and I’ll give you three, great reasons to do it:

1. The website has many places where you and your work…

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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.

Music Muses

 

Music Musings

Music Musings

Music Muses 

   There are so many wonderful indie artists out there these days. I could spend, and oftentimes do, peruse the plethora of self published musicians and song writers on soundcloud, bandcamp, YouTube and the wondrous discoveries on radio air play, and spotify are melodiously melded in pure originality. I have dedicated this page to help put out some buzz on the ones I have stumbled on and left a better person for having heard them. The following I have seen at Kings Live Music in Conway.

Randal Shreve at Kings Conway

Barett Baber

Akeem Kemp Band

Jamie Lou and the Hullabaloo

Tyler Kinchen- I Wanna Know LIVE at Kings in Conway

May 21, 2020

Tyler Kinchen & The Right Pieces- “What Must I Do?”

Saved by a Cricket

Saved by a Cricket

 a true story by Laura Botsford

when-you-wish-upon-a-star

      Life leads us away from each other and then back again when the time is right. Paul picked up his back pack and turned to me.

“Well the stars are coming out, I better get back to South San Francisco to my sisters, she’ll be worried. I hope to see you around angel lady, nice meeting you.”

“Nice meeting you too, Yeah, come back again.” I told him, hoping he really would; he was such a curious character that I wanted to hear more of his stories.

Quiet, simple, and ever present is what I knew about life then. I could give you a past, I could give you today, or recall the history of everyday people who meant something in my many encounters; but of all of them the man I called the glittersmith, shone like a new copper penny.

It was my vocation just to be and see what happened. I was traveling the streets of San Francisco, checking out stores and restaurants for jobs, writing and observing. I stopped on Market Street, revived from my earnest search for employment fresh as the yellow and white daffodils that bloomed in the gypsy garden carts on my way to Union Square.

How sweet is the bustle of 18 years of age? How new and fascinating the faces were to me, however weathered or broken. Their working days gone, old men, well beyond their present age, now sat in Union Square waiting for a hand out to buy another bottle of wine. Above the lonely din hovered one man in particular sitting alone on the stone casement, a distinguished looking man in his mid 50’s, though his clothes were ragged his stature still clung on to something upright. I immediately felt a great sadness from him that needed attention, so  I sat beside him.

“It’s a nice day, are you enjoying the music?” I asked him as the Jazz band began to play.

“I am, I’m hungry though, can you spare some change?” He asked seeing me as a golden opportunity to beg. I passed over his question as if he hadn’t asked at all.

“My name is Laura, what is yours?”

“My name is Anthony,” he said, surprised that I would even care. I felt he had once been someone special, he still carried himself well and spoke with an air of intellect, that only those educated in the art of conversation can facilitate.

” I bet you once had a job, what did you do for a living?” I asked.

“You mean before I came to this disarrayed lifestyle of wine and begging?” He said sardonically about himself then went on in a kind of euphoria with sudden clarity that even surprised him.

“Once I worked for Disney when I was twenty.  I was a cell painter … I painted the bluebirds and the haunted trees.” His eyes wept silently, streaming in sea turtles tears of a life laid ruin in the wake of temperance lost. “I was married and had two children but  they left me long ago,” his voice trailing off into a heavyweight of irrepressible remorse.

Around the corners of his mouth were hints of a smile that he must have used many times over once. I thought about how he was the one of the first who made branches move with wicked unrepentant grasps, tearing at snow white as she ran fearfully through the forest.   I saw twittering birds that flew all around in the balance of sweet air; the sun shinning up to him as he painted in the cells with liquid promise. His eyes must have been glimmering with enthusiasm as he blended the colors, knowing that many children, years from now would see what he created. His life was all ahead of him, dancing with the pictures that once filled his life with tumescent joy but now his only hope was to quit drinking.

“There is always hope. There are shelters and programs in the mission where they can help you find a new beginning.” I told him.

“Yes I stay at one but it is not enough for me. I am just getting by, waiting for release; something to live for again,” he replied.

“How about giving it to a higher power, get a sponsor and the rest will come along, it’s up to you.” I patted his shoulder and gave him ten dollars to, “ Use this for food please, get something to eat, not another bottle of wine, just one meal.”

“Thank you.” He wiped away another huge tear that streamed in a river from his eye to his chin, then he looked into the blue sky as if he were reading his life up there, searching for a cloud just to take him home.

     I was just about to leave when the jazz band of street musicians began to play ‘When You Wish upon a Star’. We sat peacefully together in a happier place as I sang along. “It makes no difference who you are.” I inwardly thought about how we all encounter a forest that either lurks to snag us with its scraggly pointed branches, or  chose to be wondrously courted  with loving welcome in a cricket’s song, ever allowing the stream of constant light to flow through us as we paint our cells in to make a story that is cherished. We sat quietly for a moment in the serendipity of our encounter. I saw him as he truly is inside and sang along with the song.

“If your heart is in your dream

No request is too extreme

When you wish upon a star

As dreamers do

Fate is kind

She brings to those who love

The sweet fulfillment of their secret longing

      I hugged him good bye,  looked up at the sunlit sky, hopefully wishing on a unseen star for Anthony, and that he would hear Ol’ Jiminy Cricket singing for him,  and maybe, just maybe… like a bolt out of the blue, fate would step in and see him through because;”When you wish upon a star, it makes no difference who you are, Anything your heart desires will come to you.