ocean rain

the bullet-grey sky today
is raining, you know
made me feel less lonely
you might be looking at the sun
weatherman says rain tomorrow
the droplets whisper
they came from your ocean
let the rains come to kiss my cheeks
and keep me company


dolphin from an ocean far away, maybe

Light the way!

AnnMarie Roselli-Kissack:

Sibella is a creative lady who entertains multiple muses. Her blog, Arts and Rhymes is a treasure trove of both art and poetry. Sibella is one of those rare folks who strives to bring peace to us all. She delivers inspiration in colorful graphics, amazing portraits, uplifting prose, lovely song…and I could go on, but she is quite modest and I’m sure I’ve already embarrassed her :) I’ve reblogged this particular piece because this amazing lantern image brings not only light, but a smile to my face. Stop by Sibella’s blog if you’d like to view more or become part of this talented artist’s world.

Originally posted on Arts & Rhymes:


This is a simplified version of my friend Paul’s photo. I used watercolors for this painting. I am still a newbie with watercolors, but it was a lot of fun! :) Paul is a photographer from Romania and each day he brightens the WP Reader with his beautiful images. Thank you Paul! :) <3

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Snake Eyes (Flash Fiction Experiment #2)

He passed her in Times Square. He knew he passed her because he passed her several more times. He couldn’t stop staring at her breasts. Staring was free unless he stepped too close. Too close meant he’d be lobbied into a hug and squeezed into leaking money which he didn’t want to do. This had happened twice before. Since then, he’d grown more clever about his distance. Close enough to absorb her saucer areolae, yet far enough away to avoid detection.

Unlike the other women with painted stars and stripes, this woman’s generous breasts were bejeweled with oblong reptilian scales. The scales were stroked in iridescent blues, turquoises and golds one merging into the next. The result was a fluid rainbow of liquid nature. Besides the soft roundness, maybe it was the exotic scales attracting him though no specific exotic reptile came to mind.

He had a thing for snakes. When he was a kid, he’d taken a summer snake course. His favorite snake to hold was the albino constrictor. At fifteen feet and weighing over three-hundred pounds it was the biggest snake in the classroom. The snake’s irises were brilliant pink with intense red rings around the outer edges almost like his, except his eyes didn’t have fiery rings. Not that anyone ever saw his eyes.

He wore dark glasses that only came off in blackest black. His pink eyes gave him superhero night vision. That’s what his mom used to say until she got sick and died and he couldn’t save her. That’s when he knew he wasn’t a superhero. His mom had had shimmering eyes of the lightest blue like a glass sky at 10 am. His mom would most certainly be disappointed if she knew he was using his superpower to stare at women’s breasts. The dark glasses made staring easy. Very few people could stare at breasts undetected. Sometimes he fancied he still had a special power, never super though, not any more.

Whenever he thought about his mom he missed her terribly, then he’d stop staring at breasts and cry. He was glad his faithful bicycle was always nearby. There was no other way to get around the city but on a pedal-pushing wheeler. Many times while riding his bike–the color of 6 pm winter indigo, its black knobby wheels would smooth out and become snakes. The giant yellow, splotchy snake would split itself in two–a viable severed worm–and wrap around each spoke tire.

He was happy to have albino anaconda wheels. Against the city’s uneven asphalt, his snake tires slithered at reptilian speed. He always arrived at his room in record time on the days he had spoked snakes. On the terrible days when he had rubber tires, pedaling taxed him. The distance from Times Square to his little speckled room was longer than all Manhattan’s bridges tied together with string. That’s what a snakeless journey felt like. On these days he’d be so exhausted, that when the woman who called herself Lynda Carter crawled into his bed, she’d start out all bumpy and curvy but then she’d turn into a snake with a long, red flicking tongue. She had breasts like Wonder Woman’s too, except her hair wasn’t dark and powerful and shiny. It was dirty yellow and brittle like the haystacks in his backyard growing up. He didn’t like touching Lynda Carter’s dead hair because it made him cry and think of his old dog he called Dog.

Whenever he cried and thought of his old dog, Dog, he missed him terribly almost as much as he missed his mother. Some days when he was really tired because he didn’t have snake tires and Lynda Carter was flicking her tongue at him, he’d think about Dog. On these days he didn’t like albino snakes or superheroes. It was Dog he wanted to pet, not Lynda Carter even when she said he had to hug her because she tied him up with her, “lasso of truth.” Dog had always made him feel safe. Whether he was tired or not, he could always find sleep when Dog was beside him. Dog would never have allowed Lynda Carter to slither into the bed. Dog had shielded him with soft golden fur. The warmth of Dog’s light was the only thing that ever reached beneath those dark glasses to comfort his dry, red-ringless pink eyes.
snakestress.72Again, I appreciate if you actually read this. It is a long piece like a snake. I’m trying the flash fiction form out and will post a piece here and there. The idea of writing a story capsule that one could swallow in one sitting is very appealing to me. Obviously, this particular piece found its inspiration in the recent headlines about the goings on in Times Square.The young man in this story followed the writer’s path who took a snake class when she was eleven and got to cuddle many slithering sidewinders. Her favorite–the albino python.

Snakestress created a few weeks back, scales added this morning for added ssssss

‘see’ turtle

tortoiseArmored carapace
marries this hide to my hundred-year-old body
This union of protection

sallies my ancient form through waters
older than you or I
Brothers and sisters
honor the places your body moves upon
Respect the glory of the four elements
with guardianship as infinite as the heavens
Do not let your watchful eyes wither
like naked flesh in burning sand

I must breathe
You must breathe

Oceans must breathe
Do you understand
I only ask because
it seems many have forgotten

little diablo enjoys fuss

devilishIf we know the, “devil lurks in the details,”
why do we insist on conquering minutia
and allow our pressure to boil red
I was once taught by folks who prayed looking up,
heaven is a big cool land
whose tenants are interested in just the basics:
kindness, civility, sincerity and humility.
Down below,
the devil is entertained
by those who enjoy hot complexity.

Interesting idiom history: the original idiom was, “God is in the detail,” meaning attention must be paid to the small things–all are important. The more popular, “the devil is in the details,” warns us that mistakes are usually made in the small checkpoints of a project. It’s meant as a caution. So my little post takes a different position. I sometimes think many of us (me included) get so wrapped in the minutia of our daily lives, we have less time for the greater human aspect.

little diablo brought to life a few weeks back after grocery shopping

speaking of minutia-I loathe grocery shopping;)

Uncle Stan’s Cloud

a car flies down the road though how could it
there are no feathers only heavy metal and fumes
anchoring its chassis to earth
a fly buzzes around the fruit bowl
as if it has something to say about the arrangement
you go to close the kitchen window where the fumes and the fly entered
up there in the sky, a cloud shaped like Uncle Stan
you haven’t called him in awhile
not since he went to the rest home, the one that doesn’t smell so funky
the car, the fly, and the cloud aren’t
in possession of anything mystical
the car doesn’t have wings
though the fly does
the car, the fly and the cloud move fast 
some believe cars have spirits
otherwise car names are pointless
even if the headlights resemble eyeballs
and a fly who doesn’t like the fruit arrangement
without elevated thought
would just be annoying
so leave the window open and let the car fumes pass
the fly will have an exit for making its escape
and for the love of Aunt Lucy, gone these seven years
please don’t forget to call Uncle Stan


this graphic created in 2014 makes me happy – she’s just silly
previously published

this time of year

may I call you out
it’s time
the nights are growing colder
the mornings chilly
leaves are weary and falling
the trees want to sleep
their shadows have cooled
and something is pressing in the wind
like a secret around the corner
this time of year
the minute hand seems to
overpower the hour
stepping through that next door
another calendar to markup with activity
summer is worn out
it’s time
for the harvest to begin
every time you change
I wish they could stay the same
and play with dolls just a little longer
Gallean with ragdoll
Galeen on a ‘shroom painted on paper a few weeks back