I simply don’t know


I often speak
not often enough
of honesty
when it’s practical and lends itself lyrically
So, here I will weaken myself by revealing
a palpable fear
This dread haunts me in most aspects of thought
still I know its talents in matters of temptation
She tries to bend my whim to her words
He employs brute strength to muscle my conscience
They slide plug nickels, never bright pennies
I don’t understand much of what I do
What if we’re not supposed to
There remains a prideful integrity in placating my own selfish spirit
I grip this fiercely
The dismay of losing my voice pales my heart
There are glimpses of things I’ve seen
Wisps of smoke on horizons blazing far above my dark corner
Questions I ask my patient angels on loan and my personal demons on demand
Am I not at their measure
Am I not reaching enough
And my humanness does stall
And my heart does break
She, He, and They come at me in these moments
bending, prodding, soliciting me to fabricate with their designer colors
In weak moments, I fall to my knees in thanks, that I was born a willful child-listening to no one’s voice
but my own

Angel Cone

descending the stairs

Light enters the foyer, he hears me descend the stairs
All fourteen oak planks slammed by my humping feet
His morning routine proceeds uninterrupted
It is I who must accommodate him every morning
He yawns and returns to slumbering on the sofa
I make oatmeal the same way every day–
blueberries, pinch of peanut butter, water and a splash of almond milk
Occasionally, red strawberries
I ascend the stairs with my favorite bowl still warm from the microwave
Without fail, he follows me
He won’t make his own breakfast and I always share mine
I know he loves me
I must believe this

The urge-to-express forbids genuine rest
All who write or art would say the same
We descend the stairs daily
Make our work
Then push ourselves into the closed arms of others
If what we’ve made is enticing it will be swallowed, ingested, absorbed, eaten
A chance of being crapped out forever nipping at our heels
Still, this incredible urge compels us
If what we create each time is desirable–
they’ll climb the stairs, even fourteen oak planks, again and again

Wish I knew my writing and art were appreciated
as much as the damn dachshund loves my oatmeal

Homage Picasso/charcoal



names not numbers

warm queen
so many words shoved into meaningless bits and bytes
thoughts tamped under layers before (God) has the chance to critique
duty convened by push button judgement
‘digit’less (bots) too crown
here in push button world
eager barefoot followers just one click away
might be (bot) love not the hand of (God) at work
light candles as ridiculous offerings to the muse
diaphanous paws stretch out to disinterested deities

rising Indus will breach her banks
before anything comes to your dry fingers
or the smoking mitt catches a paperball

impotent offerings will not ignite belly fire 
passionless minds shovel crap
your muse isn’t coming back

click away my friend
bottom up excitement over those (cold) hot digits
finger following only after proper servicing
does (he) like (her) back does (she) like (her) back if (he) hasn’t seen (their) front
it is all a front for backdoor courage
stay true to the brown polyester child
popcorn and balloons
names not numbers
names not numbers
names not numbers

do you ever wonder
how many followers God has
not that it matters
I was just wondering

Thespian Thursday

Hello my friends,
As today is Thespian Thursday, followed by Folly Friday, Selling Saturday and Sensible Sunday – I’ll be taking a few days to powder wigs, replace corset laces, polish eyeballs, rewire fingers and recharge brains…
I’ll see you back here lupine Monday (assuming the wolves haven’t enticed me to continue with my singing lessons and relocate). Hopefully enough moon glow will have landed in my soul by then.

Turquoise Eyes

Turquoise Eyes



turquoise eyes prisma pencil 2006
nutz rendered a few months ago while I had partial brain power

Seabiscuit and Why Blogs are Like Seashells

Dear Friends,
A dear and uber-intelligent blog friend made me think about what ignited my initial blogging passion? The simple, silly, banal truth – I was inspired by the movie, Julie and Julia. In a nutshell (this is a shell post), Julie gets publishing offers galore after her ‘cooking’ blog reaches stratospheric popularity. There are two problems with this movie scenario for me – I’m an average writer at best and I can’t cook.

So what keeps my butt in this chair writing a few unrelated lines when I want to invent worlds? What keeps me drawing little pictures when I like to paint expansive canvases? There is the fantasy of having 10 billion followers just to mutter, “You like me, you really like me.” I don’t think I’d ever mutter it though. Sally Field’s cheeks still redden.

I gave the whole blog thing more thought, and upon further introspection, I saw my blog in a big seashell. So I think of my blog like a great, big seashell. After all, a blog is like a giant seashell isn’t it? You can polish it and admire the translucent rainbows. You can stuff your head inside it and hide. You can fill it with your personal space, place it on your back and run. You can share it with others by letting them hold it upon their ears so they too can hear the ocean. You can collect more than one and place them in pretty jars.

I do like seashells, but I love horses more. A favorite role model of mine – hands and hooves down – is Seabiscuit. Seabiscuit the horse with the indomitable heart. The little steed who bested War Admiral, a flawless thoroughbred. I think of Seabiscuit and I smile. Yes, Seabiscuit makes me smile. Blogging makes me smile. And in the end, I think maybe that’s it…
Seabiscuit ShellThank you, my friends. Dream of sleeping in a giant shell while floating across a sparkling ocean. And one more thing you can do with a seashell – let your pet piglet sleep in it, of course!

pig in shell/acrylic

pig in shell/acrylic

Seabiscuit Shell created after looking at my Breyers’ horses on my studio shelf.
Piglet in Shell painted many moons ago.