I fixed the back fence that had been overcome during winter by snow, and put the ponies out in their summer home. It is a long stretch of land, and they love to gallop at top speeds from one end to another. When I go out for the evening feed it seems to never fail that they are at the far end of the pasture, and upon seeing me emerge from the barn with the hay, they come galloping towards me. Although I trust their rambunctious selves, it is still somewhat unnerving to have a herd of 4 horses come straight at you at a gallop. The ground shakes, and the sound of hooves in the air. It happens every day, and yet it still makes my heart skip a beat when Lyric slides to an eager stop a mere two feet away from myself.

I have also been riding (hurray!) both my Lyrical pony (trusty and loyal steed that she is and co-conspirator in all of my cowgirlish daydreams), and my daughter’s little naughtypants pony, Sophie. Ms. Naughtypants actually ditched me the other day, having spooked at a plastic bag rattling in the breeze. I was bareback, and although the little jump and rear she gave would never unsettle me with a saddle, I had decided to ride bareback that day. When I went to cling with my leg, the fat of her chubby little sides just rolled and bump down I went. Which really, is much like falling off a chair, she is so small. But she stepped on my arm! Ouch! My first time falling in 18 years, and it was off Miss Naughtypants. The shame of such a thing!

Here is Ms. Naughtypants, Sophie, with my kind and sweet old mare Hill. She looks all innocent…but she is a clever and mischievous girlie. I am training her right now so that she behaves better when my little girl rides her. Right now she is keenly aware of the difference between myself, and B. She will behave like an angel when I am astride her chubby self, but the second I hand the reins to B it is an entirely different story. She tries to walk off with her, and tries to rub her off of her back by walking too close to trees and fenceposts. So she is in pony bootcamp. Ha.

My pony injury…Sophie is small, but she still weighs 600 lbs. And anything 600 lbs stepping on your arm $%#&$ hurts. I’m just glad that it did not break, and that it was my arm, and well, not my face or ribs. yikes.

The kiddos and I had fun the other day with a cowboy(girl) dress-up and photo shoot. They are having a Carnival Week at their school, which means that they dress up as some different theme each day. One of the days was Cowboy Day, so I went shopping at some second hand / vintage stores and managed to turn up this nifty cowboy hat. So we pulled out the cap guns and played cowboys for the camera. So much fun. I wish I could post the pics of them all scowly and mean lookin’, but internet being as it is, I don’t post pics of the little ones. You will just have to trust me on the cuteness factor, or if I know you well, ask and I’ll send you some. But how nifty is this hat?! (I need to work on my mean face)

Stick ‘Em Up, Mister ! Ha.

Not too many new jewelry pics right now. I have been busy with a multitude of things, and will have more pics soon. But here is a recent set that I made for frequent client. She was looking for something special for her sister’s 50th birthday, and wanted something with the birthstones of her sister’s children. I came up with the following sketch, and after it was approved, the following jewelry set. She was over the moon happy with it, and I feel honoured that she chose me to make something for a milestone birthday bash…

Faceted blue topaz, garnet, and quartz in sterling settings. Matching bracelet, charm necklace and earrings.

I bought a new mic that I have been busy with…still getting the hang of recording things, and will be picking my guitar teacher’s brain for all of his tricks on making things actually sound good…but here is a small poem of mine that I posted a while back.

Upcoming projects: a new Paiste cymbal pendant, spoken word audio, and a multitude of soldered sterling pieces. Perhaps even a song or two… if I get truly brave…that remains to be seen.

Storm(s)
by K. de Montbrun

-I-
the first,
swarmed like bees
the sting, the openeyed
shock of it, there, and
then again, here, again. the
flood that followed
swelled the banks
for days, foul!
it cried and loudly.

beneath the roil
and boil
                            a calm
that whispered
stay.

-II-
the second,
spoke betrayal, blood
pounding head,
arms tore the sky
pulled the storm down
spun it, wild
and fierce. the
rain pummelled
left nothing unbruised.
(the fruit quivered
ruined on the branch.)

in the silence
of the whirling eye,
i held my breath
                        and followed
your footsteps
home.

-III-
the third,
black gleam of crows
swooped down
from the birches
their wings beating
adieu, each
feather a sigh, each
a different name,
goodbye _ , and goodbye _ ,
and goodbye _
the air thick with
loss, and shattered silk
promises dusted
the frozen ground.

the stick in my
hand traced words in
the snow

come

back

-IV-
the fourth,
sealed the deal
so to speak, three
time’s a charm, but
four? four times
is something bigger
than that. it overflows
the edges, it pools
in every pore, every
chamber filled echoes
with the roar,
the rhythm changes,
the blood reknits

the fourth, is
the coveted bird
returned after winter.
the fourth,
is a gift.

take it
or leave it

or both.

Fable ~K. de Montbrun

recumbent upon the river,
upon the ice, she wills it
swept by drifting
snow, blankets to winter
the arching back, the tender
flesh of throat, the burning
pulse, below the surface
the river courses deep
trembles, hairline cracks
shiver the surface raise
gooseflesh, tiny mountains
rising, rising, the deliberate
intake of breath, the slow fall

how long has she been
here? wolves circle
cautious, scent decline,
tentative pulse, eager,
hungry, so hungry. harsh
winter, and aching pit
of stomach, need to be filled
to devour, what is offered,
what is not, it does not matter
hunger does not question
why, when. they circle, circle
dreaming, ice quivers
underclaw.

the river courses oblivious
rushing only to meet the sea
it does not feel the girl
rounded flesh pressed
against its harsh shell
does not permit her entry
takes no notice of
orbiting wolves, salivating
jowls, starved eyes
burning new constellations
already consuming, rending
piece from tender piece. it cannot
hear what she is thinking

come wolfie, come close
closer now, closer now

So where are all of the jewelry photos and stories, you ask? A busy holiday season has kept my hands occupied with the making of many things. I have many photos that I will be posting over the next little while, and stories for the pieces to tell. Tomorrow I will post a series of photos and a story for #6 in my crow series.

Lou,
the moon hangs
large, heavy, round, and ripe
as if she held every longing
I’ve ever whispered, snug
within her womb
and let it grow.

And you, Lou, what is it
you hide within that quilt? What
square are you unfolding now?
Were you listening too, ear cocked
at the edge of that green sea? Was
it your tongue that tasted my tears?
lapped them lovingly from my face, drank
me fully in?

I’m on my knees Lou, and it
serves me right for saying I didn’t
understand, when I pretended
you and I were not
the closest of friends.

I understand Lou, I know the
tug of this moon on the heart, the pull
to sink deeper, into the pounding of that sea,
to drown in it, to be reborn with the
tides.

“I am so like the little anemone I once saw in the gardens in Rome; it had opened itself up so wide in the course of the day that when night fell it was no longer able to close. It was quite shocking to see it so open in the darkened meadow, still avid to take in - into its frantically-wide-open chalice; swamped by the night above it – inexhaustible…I, too, am as irremediably turned outwards, and I am consequently distracted by everything, refusing nothing. My senses, altogether without my permission, make towards every disturbance: when there is noise, I give myself up and am that noise – and since anything that is focused on stimulus wants to be stimulated, I clearly want to be disturbed, and am so, without end.” ~ Rilke

Sonnets to Orpheus II – V

Flower-muscle, that opens the anemone
meadow-mornings little by little,
until the light of heaven’s loud polyphony
pours into its womb of petals,

in the flower-aster’s silence,
tense muscle of endless receiving,
sometimes overcome by such abundance,
that the sleep-sign of evening

is hardly able to give the widely-sprung
petal-edges back to you, then:
you, so many worlds’ power and directive!

We last longer, we the violent ones.
But in which of all our lives, oh when,
will we at last be open and receptive?

Etched sterling silver keyhole plate (original hand drawn design, chemically etched), riveted to backplate and then oxidized. Labradorite gemstones, Antique skeleton key. Sterling chain.

Safety and Vulnerability

I have tread here before
though winds have blown the dust of my footprints
eroded the valleys of my passage
and new grasses, and small trees have taken root
the message the wind carries still whispers
the same.

and if I were to lead you here
the quiet spaces where the breath escapes
then gently fills, renews
if I were to lead you here, this landscape
where my soul tangles in the bare branches
is carried like a ribbon on the breeze-
what mark would you bring?

How deep would your toes reach
to place themselves in these sands,
how careful would they gage their landing?
And could the hieroglyphics of their departure
map my way back to where you stand?

Lou,
I don’t know if I trust
you anymore. The way those blackbirds
fell upon the trees thick enough
to block the sun, all I could see
were wings, the whir
of feathers, their shrill echo
a language undecipherable
to my ears.

And that one, Lou, you know
the one. The snow
of it’s belly, a star shining amongst
the frantic dark. Was he an angel, Lou? Did
you send him there with warnings, the whisper
of his wings beating in my ears,
urging my heart to uneven ground? Was
he there to sing the sun back
into the sky?

Or was he too lost, Lou? Unable to wing
his way back home?

It is always like this though, isn’t it?
You, sitting silent, the deliberate quilt upon your lap,
unfolding square, by patchwork square.
Me, in the hayfield turning stones, searching
for needles to stitch myself into my own
story, never knowing it already began
without me.

The corn has grown tall now, Lou
it stretches for miles, ripples in waves
when the wind blows, a massive green tide.
I could lose myself there, walk straight in
and never be seen again.

How
could I know the danger of watching
those green waters deep
before me, how they could steal the air
from my lungs and leave
me gasping?

There’s no returning to a moment, Lou,
it’s there, and then it is gone, only
a piercing echo in the emptied chamber,
pins through atria, ventricles struggle,
ache

the slow drowning
of memory.

The heart has had gears and cogs attached to it. An attempt to metre the messy organic rhythm so it will no longer rush forth in great surges, but will march steadfast and in straight lines. An attempt, because in the end, the heart is always messy and unruly. It is it’s nature. But we try to control it both to try and fit in with the outside world and become a part of it – as well as to protect ourselves from it.

The poem that this pendant is in part based upon….

rough draft – May 5, 2008, by K.

Bemused (i am naught )

Lou,
tell me where to find it
that cool ocean pebble with
which to stop up the pit of my heart
that same round stone to plug and
still the rushing tidal roar

i flow unruly over these red hills
there is no rhythm, no calming cadence
no ba dump ba dump to metre
my journey onwards, i spill forth
in great rushing surges, a mess
of passions and unmeasured pause

   there is no sense in this.

teach me, lou
i want to learn how to do it
the steady venturing forth,
the aloof precision of marching
my veins, arteries, a map of tidy lines.

i want manifestos, odes, adorations!
i want nothing.

i want to be the pounding of the surf
you sink yourself into.   

secrets that must
never be, whispered, perch
behind teeth, pry at the bars
of their containment.

This night brazen and still
holds only the small-beating
tumult and crash
of a careening heart,
making itself known thump
once bump
and for all. thump