it is difficult stepping away from those tracks
against a crystal skyline, pillars of graceful loops and effortless curves
are intriguingly sexual and artistic
we approach without planned caution and when in tactile position
become overwhelmed with complex magnificence
nearly all our senses fire off
excited for limitless possibilities
the engine pulls up with its H.G. Wellsian glow
Dalí inspired cars follow, enticing soft-shapes open up
we board, as sure-footed as the person ahead of us
the ride begins at a drugged snail’s pace
we plummet down, down, down, around, around, sideways, upside over…
we stopped appreciating the beauty ten, wrenching loops ago
our stomachs lurch forward, out hearts race upward, something catches in our throats but damn if we’re letting go
we chose this ride
intoxicating and revolting and thrilling as it goes
we know it can’t last forever
didn’t have any art remotely roller coaster-esque, hoping balloons get me close –
zoo balloons created a few months back previously published :-)
Ah, we female birds
so plain and dull
sitting upon our nests
obliged to keep our eggs warm
and what do you do
fly off with your freshly preened
brilliant red plumage
to seduce another dull female
while we colorless squatters
do not complain
understanding the urge to wander
is in your nature
so we dust-feathered, will teach troops of earnest chicks
and you will be crowned master of ceremony
for a parade of dull females
I was just light-hearting the prose up a bit – no offense to many a good man. :-)
Red-crested woodpecker done with watercolor marker and Prisma pencil a few weeks ago
it is easy to imagine
you hiding down below
beneath balcony shadows
in the dark velvet grass
confessing his love
hiding his sin
concealing his flesh
his wracked passion floating up
to Roxane’s heaving bosom
ripe to receive
the soft erotic words
the raging love
the chiseled form
but she doesn’t desire
the beautiful man
whose imperfections bind his soul
whose fear knots the chords of his heart
the goddess embraces clarity
but it is too late
the beautiful man can no longer speak
his desperate lips have been forever silenced
had he not feared the light
he would have been dazzled
another painting from yesteryear
She waits like a little girl
in her woman’s body
Her skittish fingers keep checking
there’s nothing more
yes, maybe tomorrow
she tells herself
twirling her long hair into
the way he used to
when he said he loved her
when he stripped her bare
she checks one more time
deep in her chest she knows
he’ll miss midnight too
on another midnight
and he’ll be there
when he chooses
to forget the inner boy
and behave like the man
the woman and girl
need him to be
Charcoal/Pastel done back, back, back, way back…
what can i give her
that i couldn’t muster
will she crave love
for a shield to take into battle
will she cry in her heart
but shed no tears
will she detox in a black journal
and hide it under the mattress
when someone moves in close
will she laugh
and not understand why
will she know how beautiful she is
when her soul is shattering
like the bathroom mirror
Pastel done when I was still young enough to play with colored chalk
I recall two special people every April,
like a pair of sad-eyed jacks –
and my friend, Mary.
I dream of Lincoln sometimes,
a long voice burning in my head brighter than any bullet.
And my friend Mary.
I met Mary many, many years ago.
She always wore silver hair and a smile
and sipped tea from bone-colored porcelain ware.
That’s what I remember.
Her invitations to tea.
Her framed mantle photos.
Mary’s stories lived in the folds of her face.
Her most prized story floated
in the crinkled waves around her ocean eyes.
While my clumsy fingers fumbled through the handle
of a delicate porcelain tea cup.
Mary told me ‘the’ story at our very first tea,
A young man and his childhood friend were to travel to another country. They planned to find dearest loves and build dream homes. When the auspicious morning arrived, the young man’s travel companion was nowhere in sight. With no appearance by his friend, the young man made a difficult choice. He watched the steamship sally forth toward the horizon and away from him. Gravely disappointed was he to miss the once-in-a-lifetime, maiden voyage of the luxurious RMS Titanic. The young man did eventually meet Mary. And they fell in love. They had ten children. Their children had forty-eight children.
Mary is gone now.
Has been for quite sometime.
But there is always this week in April,
I fondly remember
and my sweet, departed friend Mary.
Shortly before midnight of April 14, 1912, the RMS Titanic struck an iceberg, at 2:20 am the ship went below the water.
Abraham Lincoln – born February 12, 1809, died April 15, 1865
Dark Nana acrylic on illustration board done many, many years ago before I required eyeglasses.
how i wish time would erase whatever it has done to you
the injured left behind are no longer bleeding
still anguish binds your words
it lingers between the lines
like oozing tar in sidewalk cracks
you’re searching for redemption
but it’s not in you to forget
nor is it within you to fail
each holds the other back
forgiveness can’t anchor in liquid
so swallow your damn drink
then smash the tumbler
let the stuff in the cracks fester and dry up
your words are beyond
what artists deign to create
one who only dares dream
what you inspire
so please stop running
leap over the cracks
the only transgression here
is believing you have fallen
May you dream of nothing so that you may wake refreshed…
Pilate – acrylic painted back in a small kitchen with pink and grey tile in1998.