ocean god

a week at the ocean is exceptionally inspiring for a hand hugging a pencil

another love poem published on the ever-inspiring FOXGLOVE JOURNAL – please share if you enjoy the read – humble thanks

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my pink dog

dear God
I seem to have lost my faith
the pixie-haired girl stuck
to a weathered pink dog with stale bubblegum
has stumbled too low
to be found in my dreams
her memories as diaphanous as Christmas spirit
present only if you’re willing to believe
Lord, somewhere while seeking gold
my pick-axe and pan rusted
jewels of this earth
fake gems plastered in false promises
my pink pup disintegrated long ago
nothing to grab onto now
no faith to embrace
no shield to burnish
stamped with the devil’s pitchfork
locked inside life’s eternal circle
the sign of peace
we alight here in this place
our time measured in a fish eye blink
lays out no global welcome mat
too many starving toes crowding “welcome”
and the rubber rainbow has discolored
beneath this vast azure roof
no one shares a meal together
I’m gonna tell you something, Lord
despite this miraculous ability to hate
that we’ve been granted
my greatest fear
is the moment
I believe these words
I’ve just written
the pink dog is still tucked away safely inside my heart

My Charlie

My Charlie

 

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

attached graveyard

Crowns/pastel

praying
in the ethereal dark
hallelujah

sweet 
lights caress the chapel windows
cut glass haloed faces
above the nave


one if by wishing

two if by God
swaying
shoulders tangent in hope


song collective

hymnals in tufted tongues
touching cornerstones

sublime faith
only the sure-of-heart dare follow

they pray
as do I


singing

angel ears outward bound
palms dutifully spread across the tabernacle
now fanned above the pulpit


down the aisles

past the pews

velveteen chattering knee rests
hit the floor like explosions
in the christened air

beyond the comatose vestibule 

where the marbled floor ends

as do 
the blessed copper receptacles
lost lambs


and renegade sheep

must wait outside

in the attached
 graveyard

 

I went to elementary Catholic school and attended Mass through my teens –
I pray I’ve taken away the best part
my children know to–
be kind, be decent, be proud, be humble,
love with your heart not your eyes
welcome others with your heart not your eyes
(be safe too!)

pastel done in the ’80’s when I was an agitated 20-something;)

the dream disciples

Dear God, I’m trying to dream
but I’m going to Hell for my thoughts

grounded hopes I kill
sacrifice them off the ledge of my laptop

chanting, yes plenty
the dream disciples sing out in wet tongues

the roar of their licking fires
do not unnerve them

they believe in faith
I have no faith in believing

anything too hot
reduces me to confessional tears

so I continue slaying my desires
upon the concrete foundation of this place

where I’m conveniently
closer to Hell by thirteen carpeted steps

little diablo

little diablo

drinking in hell

pumping oxygen into shriveled dreams
is this what Faust meant to do
sell his pre-owned soul to the devil
in exchange for impractical objects
now if I were to barter with the devil
I’d trade ‘him’ something shiny and new
a cold case of shimmering champagne
that devil and I would squat on a charred out stump
we’d rest back to back
and have ourselves a fancy drink
a sparkling bubbly chilled to perfection
no stem glasses
coffee mugs – it’s hot down there
while chewing on the nuances of life
and spitting out bygone results
the devil would get high on evaporating ice
I’d giggle from fizz leaping into my nose
we’d sling back a few 

until finally
the devil clears his throat and makes an unusual request

rather than stoking my pre-owned soul
or sucking down a fab case of fine French
‘he’d’ ask one thing –
to forever hear my giggle
I’d smile and whisper gravelly, trying to sound like Demi Moore
Mr. Devil, it you’d like to hear my giggle for all eternity
you must love life in a way
that will melt your horns
fade your alizarin crimson hide to Valentine pink
and break hell apart
into chunks smaller than Red Hots
if you can accomplish this
I’ll giggle for you, Mr. Devil
until my endless tears of joy
fill up that old giant hell hole

little diablo

little diablo

 

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;)

Thanking God

Gethsemane/acrylicI think during sleep
and rest at sunup.
I like my coffee black
as long as it’s the color of caramel.
I enjoy warm red wine from a tumbler–
glass stems make me nervous.
Opera
is the voice you may speak to me in.
For several years,
a guitar and banjo have held up a wall–
I’m supposed to embrace them.
Someday.

When the piano cries for attention,
I occasionally oblige.
My mother has a beautiful voice.
My family doesn’t enjoy when I rattle the walls in song.
A boisterous Italian belting out, “Danny Boy”
may not grant me, “luck of the Irish,”
but I often feel fortunate.
Did you know that?
I cherish the people in and around my humble life.
Next time I talk with God–
not Satan,
he doesn’t like pianos

I’ll be sure to say thank you…

 

portrait – acrylic – my Catholic school interpretation of Gethsemane done way back when…

The Big White Kitchen in the Sky

Dear Friends,
When I was twelve, my grandfather passed away. It was my first experience with losing a loved one. I recall two specific things from that time. In life, my grandfather had a horrid sense of direction. In death, the hearse made a wrong turn. The road was an unmarked dead end and the entire procession had to turn around. The other thing I remember has long become a fixed image in my brain.

During my grandfather’s wake and funeral, I did not cry. I remember thinking, ‘”Everyone is trying to make me cry. The sad words, the sad music, the other crying people are all trying to make me cry. I’m not going to cry.” This mantra worked until it didn’t. I held in my tears for three days. I almost made it to the finish line. As I began walking away from Papa’s freshly dug plot, it hit – like a ton of salty wet bricks. I was body-jerk sobbing when a surreal image popped into my head. There was Papa, burly and thick, his great sausage fingers throwing meatballs into a deep silver pot. His head was turned to the right so I could see the big smile on his face. A smile so wide, his horn-rimmed glasses rode up his cheeks. I could smell the tomato sauce – there in that big beautiful white kitchen.

Winged

Winged

 

Everyone who departs earth joins Papa in The Big White Kitchen. My grandparents are playing cards on the round white table, nearby a gallon of Carlo Rossi rests. There’s nothing but laughter and smiles all around. It’s sunny and smells of tomato sauce and meatballs. Everyone is joyful in The Big White Kitchen, even the dogs running around the table legs.

Thank you. May you dream of your loved ones in wonderful places…
Wings created with Prisma pencil 2 weeks ago after observing a butterfly.

All Things Great and Small

Dear Friends,
Though I spent my younger years attending Catholic School, I don’t consider myself religious. I’d call myself spiritual at best. This particular post includes text from Cecil Alexander’s, Hymns for Little Children. James Herriot used the first stanza from Ms. Alexander’s hymn, “All Things…” to title his fabulous series. Mr. Herriot’s three books are based on his 1930’s veterinarian practice in Yorkshire, England. These humorous, yet poignant books, are worth the time – if you have it to give.

All things bright and beautiful,

flowers close
flowersAll things great and small,

cabin kidsgreen monstermonster pants

All things wise and wonderful,

on couchThe Lord God made them all.

istaalligatorThank you and goodnight. May your dreams abound with earth’s wondrous creatures.

(The flowers are done with watercolors. I rendered the monster illustrations in Prisma pencil and I once had an iguana named Ista who I called friend. The croc is named Barney. Barney suffered tremendous depression when he learned a purple dinosaur swiped his name. Barney cried so many crocodile tears he rusted. )