happiness is…

this is one of those rare instances where I call upon my face to serve as art replacement – I believe I was about 16-17 years old here – I do remember the t-shirt – very fond of it at the time – Happiness is a German Shepherd 😘

editing

fake flowers in an outdoor garden I’ve buried
tracks inside a puma’s paw leading outside the cave
my hands place glass beads beneath your naked feet
crush and drink the blood
too much?
tacky paper for trapping wingless appellations
where many thoughts stick then expire
rather like the spider spinning threads too thin for binding
I am here, always in your black places
thinking on a bridge, crossing soil to sand
’tis a fine thing to sleep construct with glass balloons
bursting when I wake
inside my lava chest, a torrent of hot ash
running the length of my breast and tangling my legs
I will return to my chilled sheets at moonrise
rebuild the span of me, you have not yet found
only the tunnel to my nightmares is wide open

pounding Djembes

blistering fingers thrum chords of fire
are these the burning hands you know
the soul’s tempo like a copper pendulum, does gold resonate there
this virtuoso mouth of yours, has it stolen arias in vacant symphony halls
when lights are low and days have dimmed
has the rage of your wanting lips fingered around a contrabass anaconda
do motivations fade inside bitter notes when the maestros falter
is your wary body allegro when a feisty partner plays
do you weep for the swelling of spring songs upon winter’s death
written across sheets of white are ink spills to be erased
goat-skin Djembes thrust exotic cadence into hearts unprotected
does this pounding journey move along its own rhythm
or do lovers create your solos

Upright nude trio/charcoal

solitary fish

She keeps her Siamese Fighting fish in a glass bowl
Gravel glimmering in aquatic blues and mermaid greens
A solitary fish might believe lake, or better yet, ocean
The pet store suggests Sammy live alone,
otherwise he might kill his friend
The red-orange Betta is fire under water
She is fire under water too
Her lavender room is a glass bowl
She and Sammy swim in tiny circles in small worlds
A wooden peace sign beneath her bed
Painted with glitter and all the paint jars within reach on the picnic table
Long wooden benches occupied with sweaty kids who whittled words into tiny canoes from two-by-four scraps
The wood, leftover construction from a nearby development
She swims in a luxurious new home
many rooms, many spaces, glass bubbles, no air
The peace sign is tacked behind Sammy’s bowl
It reminds her of summer camp, a happy temporary time
fair-weather friends
She grows into autumn alone
The seasons, solitary
A huge house and a small fishbowl
one mother
one daughter
one fish

Hair Hiding

it’s a wonderful life

Aroma and bubbling of a Seattle blend
Dark splitting open by jagged blue
Promises of the sun
Soft light dusting treetops–only treetops–magic beyond miracle
Squirrel’s ass bounding to safety
The red barn where he once sculpted in metals
Old white house, black coffin shutters where I imagine Poe sailing on a brigantine in a bottle, the ancient bottle forever resting upon an antiquated sideboard with missing crystal glass pulls
Lanza’s voice at any volume
Moon roof parting like the gymnasium floor, Charleston revelers diving in
Gold sparkles on my fingers from latest spray paint project
Son adjusts side view mirrors
The mere possibility of these glorious events repeating
Tomorrow, while driving to school

wood nymph

thinking of Christmas movies on this warm, sunny day 😉

do you (think you) know me

do you (think you) know me
inside my words
on top of my art
are your elbows leaning at your side(s) as you read along
do they comfort you
your elbows, not my word(s)
not my art
maybe you’re only getting to know me
if you don’t know me, (I dislike math)
these thing(s) xx2f (art+writing) are no source of comfort
rather(!) representational of all I don’t know

I do know–if we lived closer
we might be (great) friends

I am told I smile most of the time

when I write dark(ly)
or when I write in darkness
(lights are sleeping. I’m not)
I grin
unintentionally
like mad grimacing
once long long ago in a generous glass grocery store window of epic proportions I spied my reflection she was smiling. I wasn’t happy

I want you to be comfortable
inside my words
on top of my art
with your elbows at your side(s)
and tell me something
about yourself
I might even get to know what it is I don’t know
about myself

PS (person singing)
when we meet on that special day
in that secret place (where I wait for you)
we will smile at one another
I stop looking in a generous glass grocery store window of epic proportions to see another smiling face
my personal shopper

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