love of ava

of all the Hollywood starlets, there is one I adore above all others. my love affair with Ava Gardner began long ago for many reasons. she cried when Hollywood painted out her cleft chin. she didn’t take her appearance seriously. she never trusted her talent. she drank with Hemingway. she lived life without pretense. she lived life. she really lived life. I treasure the lyrics to old man river. Sinatra. she lived on after a devastating stroke. she’s always reminded me of my mom.

(cropped image-couldn’t find photographer name to give credit)

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well red or where to find her secret

a play on words. the theatrical presentation of polyester tomboy life. a waking thought. sky diving into bedtime storyland. Peter Pan warns individualism must be shared. now, I don’t want to see my wings clipped by an elfin dude I could beat the crap out of, so I’m going to (begrudgingly) divulge a diary secret.

shh, I’m about to give up the hidden location of an idea place. 
before moving beyond this point you must have a dog (if you don’t, borrow one from a friend). 
for starters, you don’t have to wear the same pajamas like I do–fifteen years (going for a personal best).

we begin by focusing and moving backward to a place you weren’t born then go ‘well’ passed there. continue meandering as long as you can stand it. when you arrive at the small door in the fat tree, do not look for Alice the Golden, or a gleeful bear. you’re on your own. spirit around the bulky tree and the little door (if you went through that stumped portal, you must start over. hey, I didn’t even tell you to turn the knob).

the rest of you keep moving. up the six hills with the long grass that tickles you into forgetfulness. on the seventh hill where the black sun spreads across the white ground you should see a dilapidated well. climb to it. push the lopsided bucket aside. peer into that black hole. it is ungodly deep and satanically dark down there. throw yourself in.

that’s right (if you thought about how much it might hurt, were nervous about what could be lurking on the bottom or loathe falling upside down in confining lightless places–you’ll need to change your wet pajamas then go back to the beginning). those still with me we are presently falling. down, down, down. submerging into the red. crimson lightning splatters across the abyss walls (Mr. King likes this). if we remained calm, we’re floating in spectacular red. red for the reason all good things are. blood. pumping. boiling. lusting. bloody good. bloody fucking great. get those blood suckers. blood hounds. drink up as much life giving red as you possibly can. (hope you brought the dog I said you needed. luckily for us, all dogs are loyal so they followed) now, whistle for Lassie. she’ll find that silly Timmy whose only job is to follow plan b–get real help (let’s face it, Timmy is nothing but trouble and lacks coordination).

if your dog isn’t Lassie (sorry, I forgot to mention that little detail in the beginning), you’re not getting out of well red anytime soon. kick frantically if you must, but you’ll eventually drown. if this happens you’re definitely not getting out. just float on your back. think of where you aren’t and what might be going on there. is his head too big to fit through a little door? is her soul too small to fill a honey pot? did the insane tambourine player find his moldy hamburger? all good questions. continue emptying your mind of whatever it is you think you know.

then a black sun epiphany–

a way to climb out of well red.

hopping up one little springboard at a time ’til you reach the top

with a fistful of fresh inspiration in each hand

now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to get my wings polished.

Angel Cone

art created last year for another post

reading shelves

here they are
on the honeysuckle bookshelves
framed in backbone
one story each
pages of words romanticized and read on occasion
to sit in the chair by the window
sanguine days of flipping
to the bottoms
spines cracking
on lower shelves
anxious to move up

Paper Shadow

Paper Shadow

art previously published

I Will Part with My Love

What is it they say–
if you love something
set it free…

In the past,
we’ve made rhythmic music together
I’ve joyously
caressed him and
he’s returned in kind

“Hearing the seasonal bells”
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow’s
timeless words
set to melody
has inextricably bonded our souls

We’ve been an unconditional duo,
though of late
my thoughts have been elsewhere
My aloof fingers
stroking electronic keys

In my tangled heart
I know
our music will linger on–
as a childhood dream
once realized

I do love him so
but
the day I release him
I know
he will never return

Bell-la

art published last December – it’s never too early for the holidays

There is no longer space for my baby grand piano – rather than have him go down to the basement, he will be sold…I do hope to get an upright someday – gotta have a piano or I get cranky 😉

See my ROAR, Hear my PEN, Taste my ART

what is it we are trying to earn
what is it we want to hear
emphatically
with the heart of a child
and the head of an adult
what is the purpose
of
placing our raw insides
on fleeting outsides

is it for others to appreciate
what we’re trying to say
or are we desperate to hear
what we wish they would tell us

please
see my ROAR
hear my PEN
taste my ART

won’t you

homage to Moreau

homage to Moreau

art previously published
she’s certainly screaming for attention in all kinds of ways😉

an old market and Hemingway

walking through the old Parisian market
it’s a bit warm
but the wide-brimmed hat cools
spent your take home pay on couture
wearing a hand-colored print
most of your life has been devoted to
searching for him
here
among throngs of meandering shoppers
eyes vigilant
your hands busied
squeezing Mirabelle plums
as if they know how to select fruit
the few dollars in your purse
not enough to buy food for the week
still there is the desire
of sweet and ripe and perfect
the late noon sun lowers
evening clouds come calling
you reach to shut the light
there will be another day for hope
and sipping to lost love
another night forgetting
there is no market
never a man
only turning pages
beneath an antique reading lamp
beyond the words
into a rhythmic breathing
with
Hemingway

rat pack dream

rat pack dream

it must be hat week for me 😉
art previously published

Homage to Doctor Moreau

“The crying sounded even louder…. It was as if all the pain in the world had found a voice.”

“For everyone the want is bad. Some want to go tearing with teeth and hands into the roots of things, snuffing into the earth.”

“An animal may be ferocious and cunning enough, but it takes a real man to tell a lie.”
insane lioness singerQuotes from the transformative pen of H.G. Wells, The Island of Doctor Moreau

my creature gal created about 3 weeks ago with no hard-core animalistic intent

madness be damned

perpetual motion has been busting my fold
between wake and sleep
sometimes it is present when I am not
other times it sits on my lungs
it is following a bit too closely
fearing it will tease me and leap out the window
like dust particles that once belonged to the ground
in every room a pad and pen
the nagging words, nonsensical sometimes
inked and captured
if they aren’t, I do not rest
then it starts
each strand of hair yanked one by one
in every room a pad and pencil
images for the lopsided prose
forms exsanguinating from bodily dreams
I might lose my mind
alas, it would be something I’d capture
before the last grey cell disintegrates
perhaps I might finally understand
Ensor or Poe
minds wild
madness be damned

Although sometimes I have felt that I held fire in my hands and spread a page with shining, I have never lost the weight of clumsiness, of ignorance, of aching inability
–John Steinbeck

TopHead

My little madman is losing his head to hats…

beautiful Cyrano

it is easy to imagine
you hiding down below
beneath balcony shadows
in the dark velvet grass
like Cyrano
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
anon
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

Gethsemane/acrylic

Gethsemane/acrylic

another painting from yesteryear

Nostril Bone

Dear Friends,
Was I in an O’Keeffe mindset, while thinking about my mother-in-law who lives in New Mexico? Was it current high school subbing – placing me within earshot of, Lord of the Flies and ‘his’ staked pig’s head – that prompted this? Whatever the flirting muse, Nostril Bone, manifested two days ago and I ‘kinda’ like her. She may become a painting…

nostril bone Thank you. May you dream of insect-free, big skies.

CALLING ON ALL PERSONS WHO BREATHE FREE AIR,

PLEASE READ AND PASS ON: Liberian Letter