magic

I created this wizard to raise funds for a local high school’s Senior Night. I wish I’d taken better pictures of the darn guy before I gave him away. Live and learn! 😘 – thank you

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temptations

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
Elusive
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

latent images

You press my eyelashes to my face, so I can sleep
You understand how latent images frighten me
Linger-ers of things no longer here
Specters of visions previously forgotten
My REM world has no room for ghosts,
when my daily world explodes with spiriting insanity
The floating muses who once fed me fire are burning away my soul
Half the time, I want to die
The other half, I need you
You hum my favorite song to me, even though you think a tune from,
Mr. Magoo’s: A Christmas Carol, is ridiculous
“…millions of grains of sand on the shore, why such a lonely beach…”
Taunting demons keep the headless roosters raving in my head
I badly need your sweet notes, like cotton clouds, to muffle these assaults

There is an empty slope on your side of the mattress
I smell your assuring body in the pillows–
beautiful lips in the sheets
Your undisturbed water glass has collected my tears
Singing silence, is a sound worse than death
Death, is a sound the earth hums when her children return home
I’ve sliced off my eyelashes
Shoved broken toothpicks against my sockets
Stare at the television without blinking
Click the remote
Latent creatures slither into my eyes
Crawl up the sides of my brain–
rip at the cracks of my skull
They whisper horrid things to the better part of me
I will dance with demons
I will romance angels
I will scream at the Holy Spirit
I will allow all manner of vindictive specter–
every hellacious image of the night to dwell within my soul
I will not desist until you rest beside me again
I am not supposed to be here without you

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

my passion

so many of us wrestling our muses
getting off on the lonely thrill of possibility
safely tucked faraway behind a warm screen
not on the other side of winter’s sheets
the one who will save you from yourself and the spirit who toys with your intent
allowing us to believe and pretend there is something fresh to say
words, nuances in forms uttered as never before
more learned
more experienced
mock my inability
lovers mouth these moments in blind voice
ecstasy where speeches and diatribes are meaningless and sensations are God sent
complex notions suffocate deep in the wrinkles
in the darkness of bright minds lit by isolated hope
books of famous speeches forever bound together gathering dust
like my feet beneath my desk
there is nothing new to speak of
we unintentionally aim to create thoughtless things
passion and peace are not real
they are the pair of cement lions who guard my front porch
where Christmas lights still hang
other than these hardened beasts
peace is man’s inability to calm the ocean
and my passion is in your mind only

Pilate/acrylic

Pilate/acrylic

 

ice sculpture lovers

the stingy calendar does not offer up
enough holidays with you
your presence–
gentle and loving

like satin bows wrapping me
deep eyes glistening
for the festive evergreen
not the lateness of the hour
beyond waltzing flames,
silent snowfall brightens
cracked curbs and black pavement
let’s smash all the world’s timepieces
destroy those wicked hands
against searing fireplace bowels

freeze this moment
keep it safe
you and I

ice sculpture lovers
forever locked in a glistening embrace

lady in dark/pencil

lady in dark/pencil

never too early for holiday thoughts;)
published last year, regifted this year – better:)

rivers of white v2

I don’t sleep the way I used to
in cool twists and quiet spells

I can’t possibly go up the tall stairs to my bedroom
without releasing the weight of my fingers into another space
my hands will push letters
rivers of white will burst outside my mind

I will say things I would not do
I will do things I would never say
caught in between
like a sturgeon and the silt

words as floppy as fishes
swim upstream to spawn
if not completely undone by the journey
will develop into erstwhile muses
then swim back in the other direction

sturgeon

sturgeon

art created last year for an illustrated project

this is a writing piece from last year
I’ve been going through some of my earlier writing
revising the pieces that can be salvaged
many are not wonderful and must be left to
drown in their owner’s ick;)
thank you

“river of white” is actually an old publishing term describing the white spaces created between words on a page

wonderfoul

hum
holiday sweetness swallowed
digested sugared out cells
‘wonderfoul’

something of substance now
coaxed to inspiration through stiffening fingers
by broad daylight shafts of the Bilco
they both open you know
two doors
easily transporting giant dollhouse furniture
in and out
one should build choices
in life’s structure

as cornered animals never fare well
and cornered humans far worse
if it’s passion you seek 
shove the cumbersome drafting table
or dense writing desk
by the Bilco
keep those doors open
welcome the frigid air
to stoke your muse
and let the distant sun
melt your inhibitions

Lion Dreams

Lion Dreams

shown a few times – he’s one of my favorites

muse trident

long before tears conspired
to pour the four oceans
the ancient Greeks acknowledged

a lone muse could not satiate
a human’s desire

and ten divisible by two
too dull in its perfection

in cerebral court
it was decided
to incite
tridents of meditation
three groups of three
to wage ongoing battle

in homage to originality

perhaps
we humans need to believe
inspiration does not dwell within
and creative stimulation
is
something to unleash
outside ourselves

muses
nine
still may be
too few
blue horsesyellowed horses
inspired by avant-garde artist – Franz Marc’s, gorgeous colored horses, all of them