callous

Advertisements

winter’s wilding

Out there echoes the brokeness of my situation.
It crashes the house oblivious to the shattering person inside.
The trees how they yield for mercy, begging to be spared.
Helpless are we to save them.
As he was to salvage me.
Agitated currents force unrest below the stones.
Invisible fists lay waste to my sweet plastic pots for spring planting.
The nascent air–bitter instigator of material tears–shoves and pushes into massive tantrums.

Not here.
Thank God, as I can’t take anymore breaking.
Inside, my squatting flesh reverberates with leftover aches.
Old blunders once a spiral of mad air.
Winter’s wilding beyond the anchor of a little brown desk.
Where his feet once rested on my knees.

swirl skating

my little Matryoshka

Concerned with fashionably balanced items on bookshelves–
I thoughtlessly placed her long ago
To this day, she squats, eyes forward, harboring no ill will
Most of my shelved tomes have sat so long, their spines have rusted–
But, eight horse-sized literature anthologies have seen action
Their bulked-up spines are careworn and wrinkled
As part of the publishing team who created them, I’ve perused them plenty
Two houses ago, I held an authentic job–
accompanied by a generous paycheck and a me, me, me business card
When child number one entered into my, my, my world, I exited Prentice Hall
Since then, Springsteen’s Glory Days, endlessly loops in my ears
This might explain my current cruelty to Matryoshkas
Depending on the day, the time and the spider muses in my studio–
my temperament shifts

This morning, I’ve not yet descended into my she-shack, where all creative things happen or nothing at all–
I’m still sipping coffee in my kitchen, facing the ‘family room,’ and the mantel with its bookended bookshelves
Colored spines form up-ended brick paths to limitless rabbit holes
The antique nesting doll guards a Time Life series covered in 70’s drab
The decorative mirror resting behind her bulbous form, lends a reflective quality to the warm palette
You can’t see the dust. I can. The shelves have remained undisturbed for awhile
I never considered little Matryoshka’s thoughts when I exiled her to shelf Siberia
Not a single heart-string of mine tugged for her redundant life–a nonstop amalgam of herself
As I write this, I’m thinking about Matryoshka–
her delicate flower patterns and the firm twist one must apply to reveal her abundance
Perhaps, I am jealous of my little Matryoshka
She knows who she is, inside and out
bookshelvesshot of my family room taken this morning, portrait hanging over mantel was painted 2 years ago, if you look closely at the upper right, top bookshelf you can see little Matryoshka

soured opera

hey, can I talk with you
I’m running out of things to say
you must hear and listen closely
the flesh of my fingers and that of my heart have joined forces
I can no longer reach without stretching my courage so thin it snaps
my chest is sinking roots into the foundation
scripted musings taunt the white half-moons of my freshly polished nails
delirious encounters, once teeming champagne froth into the night wild
have turned out unvarnished piles of road bound snow
I need to suffocate these regrets
slow the ooze from my brain as it drowns my fading voice
please look into my eyes and see
this isn’t about us anymore
where moist lips once blindly crawled to eat delirious and chew desire
only wordless truths haunt moments of silence upon empty prop beds
I am losing conviction
I am losing dulcet wings to flying devils
the peripheral midnight blue curtains, gold sashes sweating to unbuckle
will be the last to darken the stage of my life
see there, my sweet notes slipping from your oiled parchment pages
the midnight fairy has vexed our maestro’s musical flirtations
bowing to the final call
my heavy heart pulls me below the dirty pool of my tears
suffocate these lucid impulses
tear shadow from skin so I can no longer find the moon
I deserve no last libretto
nothing but an end to this soured opera

swirl skating

swirl skating

haven’t tackled a “romantic” piece in awhile-wanted to give it a try-thank you

 

emerald velvet

silver hair once black as Christmas coal
hunger for learning, for creating
replaced with too many frail specters
her soul is tired
worn through and greyed
melting like roadside snow
her mind
stuffed to the stocking toe
with brave thoughts of death
and fears of dying
God, if she could remember holiday celebrations
twirling on star-dusted dance floors
toasting wishes into white-gold bubbles
floating by northern stars
rickety painted sleighs guided with frolicking white ponies
whose happy hooves were unaware of winter’s brittle bite
I shall drape her long emerald velvet dress
across the lumpy sunken bed
perhaps her dimming eyes
will once more breathe glittering light
lips long ago sharp and full
will sing a small song of renewed hope
in these last twilight days of frosted window panes
Karoleposted this painting several times, I painted this for my mother-in-law
who once sewed a long emerald dress for the holidays

little low, high heeled dude for halloween

be who or what you dream
but just for today;)
top-headthis little guy makes a black and white appearance in my illustrated book of love verse
love of the monster available 12.15.16, maybe sooner:)

Happy Birthday to my beautiful mother, 81 years young today

it’s different today

alone with people 
lonely inside himself
like her
it’s different today

there are those who are complete
with Barbie accessories
used to be days-of-the-week underwear
she’s dating herself
how fun it was back then to misplace Friday
nothing humorous about G-strings
unless you count the wedge itch
you can’t scratch in public
that’s the problem with this new crop of lovers
no sense of humor
‘cleverness’ is their wheelhouse

those pouting cell phone faces
hair calculatingly tousled
upper and lower bulges endlessly optimized
in faux snake scale

elegant mystery lost on past illusions
the past

he covets one
a sense of humor
present when
he’s not trying to be so hard
with thoughts
or backstories
like her
prancing around boldness
except on the dance floor
’80’s disco gloriously simplistic

they are alike
they are alone
in a world beset by shiny upstarts
bedazzled with
Barbie accessories
they summon old-school dreams
and pray these fading thoughts will keep them company
when they are alone
snake-lady-long-neck-edited
slithered out of my head last night-thank you

know, knowing, knew

I don’t ever know what I mean
I don’t ever mean what I say
does that help
if you know me
you’d know
I miss knowing
not knowing what it was
I never knew
about you
I hope you’re following
me right now
are you
or is this too
confusing
this not knowing
makes me a bit blue
not stockings around the neck blue
just sad, quite sad
knowing you’re out there
floating
makes things better in here
“clever girl”
that’s what the hatted Jurassic Park hunter utters
before velociraptors enjoy their steak tartar
let’s backup
start over
I’m tired of searching
not knowing

I’m tired of marching forward
time does not play fair

can you follow this
me?

I speak in tongues
forked

no one can know
not even me
follow?
or are you as confused
as I am

swirl skating

swirl skating

’tis Fried Day and the brain has not escaped the frying pan fire this week – happy weekend – thank you