the soft spot

photo of my beautiful mom with my kiddies many moons ago…

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marble journal

well, here we are my friends, into another season
the season you choose inside that amazing mind you were gifted
over some earthworm who must content himself
with getting washed from his hole come spring
I do not own this thought
it is one I pass on to my children
vessels safeguarding future knowledge trapped inside present time
a new morning over coffee, I’m caught in a precious time warp
staring at me, before it gets stowed into his school backpack
a loaded composition notebook–sentinel of coagulated educational emotion
this particular marbled gem of bound cyan lines is bursting at its stitching
so bloated, it appears yanked from the Dead Sea then baked on some remote Mayan steppe
I wonder about my son’s limitless thoughts, the ones I’ve seen, the ones I never will
triggered by calculated classwork prompts
I believe I know my son as well as I know myself
my crammed journal has not been as honest as his
learned years have taught me to erase
going forward, I’d like to use the mind I’ve been gifted
and not get washed from a worm hole come spring
this year I choose the season of color
no neutral shades will hide my eyes or stifle my pens
I will be honest in my art
I will be honest in my writing

my first honest thought
this scares the crap outta me

Paper Shadow

Paper Shadow

please do not leave me alone

please don’t leave me alone
with me
she isn’t always patient
often acerbic
with her
self
demanding the muse
to squat in her studio
silent so she can think
with or without a voice
outside her
self
this night is especially dark
 blustering trees their arms grabbing
wind pushes those
in his way
muse on a dead leaf
brilliant color now diminished
mottled
from overuse
the sky is howling
autumn is upon them
muse and artist
with no words or lines
thoughts in color
passed summer’s glow
dead umber like soil in shadow
ideas in flat space
wind cannot reach
muse cannot speak
senses dulled enough
to hibernate
please don’t leave me alone
I can’t think in dark caves

Shy Bear/Prisma

Shy Bear/Prisma

songs of silences

deformed putty pink

robbed of warm breath

contorted sweet necks
tar bubble eyes bulging

frail unfeathered waxy torn

foiled unsung tiny raptors

never will gush
broad kite wings against the wind

meander upon the thermals

dead
before
winter’s white bone chanced a kill
stuffed down bright 
spring’s dark bosom

stalks cradled
strapped with dried fall grass

gentle summer kisses will not carry
overlapping notes 
sung in threes

new harmonies in pubescent throats

echoing from fresh limb to sailing cloud

undeveloped triplets all

delicate melodies
small and quieted

in the driveway
sad little chicks

stilled
 baby birds
in her songs of silences
nature candidly reminds us

she is both
judge and jury
warblerI wish this piece wasn’t here or anywhere else – but I hope it serves as a eulogy
for those baby birds – may they fly in eternal peace

art created last year for an illustrated project

swimming on the soil

in the series of liquid drops that fall from the sky
I draw a puddle of the world
a crystal ball to sieve my thoughts
universal ramblings sometimes shimmer
here within this watery dimple
beneath the shallow surface
deep dissonance
my sonar, far from a bat’s
still can locate earthen skin
hair bronzed by morning light
eyes ocean aqua
and a heart not quite complete
tears I believe to be mine
join their brothers and sisters
swimming on the soil
early summer winds shove the late spring clouds into the sun
the puddle washes into black
my crystal ball collapses

the funny thing is
when the sunlight returns
you’ll completely disappear
and the only thing that can save you now
are the puddles in your own head

mint eyes

mint eyes

falling

spectacular glow against the robust purple grey sky
leaves spiraling in wind directing thin branches to bow
unreal color drenching the landscape
but what am I seeing
not glorious
scratched pencil lines and spinning circles
into ovals with broad maws and wild fur
sharp orbs and blocky nostrils
I’m hearing too many voices
the wind is a sailing eraser
the wall

Art Wall 1Art Wall 2Art Wall 3Art Wall 5Art Wall 6Art Wall 7Art Wall 8Art Wall 4RHinopaper falling like leaves
when
almost home I look up through a tree
these
these are the falling papers
this is the wind
this is what I need to remember
this is why
I have eyes
autumnsketches done for students to demo different animals…
picture taken when I returned home from subbing
while standing in my driveway looking up

it was just a room

studio gone
it’s just a room
isn’t it
wasn’t it
what has been lost
it was just a room
if one is passionate
about their work
walls shouldn’t matter
or doors
only the spirit
only the heart
the room might be empty
but the mind is full
always full
if one is passionate
it was just a room
after all

Curl/charcoal

Curl/charcoal

 

 

past echoes

There is an oddness in the distance
faceless voices
disappearing 
between the rush of cars
Years ago, it would have been a herd of cattle

running for the lunch bell
on the road
, past my house

I sit on the front porch
perched on a yellow plastic Adirondack chair
drinking wine from a tumbler
pretending it’s a brown bag
and fantasizing I don’t have to work

Those faraway voices 
echo now
like dairy farmers’ spirits
loading Bessie’s milk onto Old Erie railroad cars
bound for the city

Retired sounds 
I imagine floating up
to the sun that once fed the cows golden grass

The birds, the flitty ones
with bright yellow bellies like my chair
flutter by my porch

saying their good nights or goodbyes
depending on how cold
this early autumn eve turns

warbler

this time of year

may I call you out
it’s time
the nights are growing colder
the mornings chilly
leaves are weary and falling
the trees want to sleep
their shadows have cooled
and something is pressing in the wind
like a secret around the corner
this time of year
the minute hand seems to
overpower the hour
transitions
stepping through that next door
another calendar to markup with activity
summer is worn out
it’s time
for the harvest to begin
though
every time you change
I wish they could stay the same
and play with dolls just a little longer
Gallean with ragdoll
Galeen on a ‘shroom painted on paper a few weeks back

Rubbing Earth’s Elbows

My Friends,

the sun rubs earth’s elbows
the moon caresses her back
the wind feathers the soil
the rain cleanses her wounds
the fire titillates new life
the ice sculpts her bed
the clouds find purchase
the mountains alight
her muse sustains us
in perpetual current
as dried leaves fluttering away…

Autumn Leaves

Autumn Leaves

Thank you. May you dream of the seasons – old friends conversing at a tea party graciously allowing one another time to tell their tales…

Galeen in Autumn, collage created a few months ago. Published in a prior post.