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

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leave it to a cartoon pig

trying to get at something
I can’t quite reach from the ground
there is no sleeping in slumber
no resting for the restless
hurriedly living to stamp personal honors on crowded individuality
some methodically hiding to avoid the same
embracing or effacing, the certain weightlessness of our heavy conclusion
this finite fact of our infinite fiction
depending on where the cord has been cut
a lifeline, a noose, a kite string
we enter
we exit

“…that’s all folks”
(leave it to a cartoon pig to shame us into reality)

Peppermint Pigs

Peppermint Pigs

 

are there enough pages

are the chambers of your heart sliced thin
with enough pain between the parchment
to make you an interesting read
have the edges of your soul been sharpened
despite the dull devils trying to wear them down
are those cobwebbed secrets in the recesses of your mind
sell-able
will anyone pull a star down from heaven
and slap it on your blemished skin
the thoughts that crawl up your beading flesh when lights go dim
can those fading illuminations stage a moment
amid a sun-packed universe of perfection
what makes your story
more interesting than your lover’s
will there be enough pages to sew together
after you tear your life apart
sculpt woman

waiting to become fearless

I am not a fearless artist
I am not a fearless writer
I am not a fearless poet
I am not a fearless mother

I am a fearless friend
until you break my heart

and then

I must wait

to become fearless again
pukwidgiethis little guy was first created in purples back in 2007, since then we’ve become great pals and this past year we went clothes shopping;)

I was thinking this morning about how often I doubt my work and how important it is to be friends with yourself
so you can keep creating forward…thank you

I wish I were him

I eat each piece, tearing apart the lines, ramrodding through the verbiage to find the golden rabbit. Dissecting the words, vivisecting the pulp flesh to get at the blood.
He’s so popular and I’m at a loss to explain this to my heart. Clearly he’s dug into term universe, uncovered buried gems in the trove. My eyes follow along waiting for an aha moment which I believe imminent. I continue whooshing pages beneath my flippant index finger. I’ve even welcomed a paper cut to my writing hand, my sketching fingers and if that’s not love and appreciation I don’t know what is.

Have I become jaded here, to take from this writer his every success? To deny him entry to my pathos. All these heavy-lashed eyes who cut their hearts on their emotional skins find him not only aha but voilá too. Have I grown distant, out of touch with those in near circles, the ones I stand outside of but near enough to see shapes. Really a square is what I am, too old for the shit of jumping, thumping and humping. (let’s see if that catches on like chew and screw, or her whale tail is riding high). God, when did I become such a bummer.

Gratification the millisecond glazed eyes puncture letters and back lit brains string ‘em together to chow repurposed cinema kernels. 
It’s sugar free instant pudding with no pudding skin, what the hell, the floppy sugar skin is the entire delight. Lambasted with social medium, no large, just fucking medium and you have to hit that sweet spot. Like his words, the sweet spot, he’s got it covered with a giant manhole cover.

There are lines I read now, not his, but other minds. Mind you – was I to have the exact same words in a tumbler, I could never spill out what they gloriously let flow and have us swallow greedily in want of more steaming rum on frigid nights when we’re alone with our bored hands. These exquisite things to be viewed, fondled, touched then returned behind their velvet ropes.

I grabbed from the money shelf for pretty books. His is a very pretty one. Books I sometimes buy to impress others with my vertical color collection. The truth if I may be honest with you. I don’t always read them, only some, the pretty ones. I’ve placed his words on the pretty shelf because I want to remember what I don’t know. I want to recall my head falling into a tailspin. My bones neatly following in a jerking motion. My fingers in my mouth licking my wounds the paper cuts pretty books give me.

I must be honest with myself.
I must be honest with you.
I want to be honest with him.
There are words I will never write and thoughts I will never have.
There is genuine fakeness in so much.
Even Me. Even Me. Even Me.
I don’t like the words.
But still I am wishing
I were as creative.
Still I am wishing
I were him.
sasquatchMy time is drawing near, where I will be critiqued more than usual. I’ve never read much poetry before. Of late, it’s all I do read. There are so very many spectacular and amazing writers out there – mind blowing really. And on a rare occasion, there is one, I don’t quite grasp why their words resonate with the success they do. This leads me to believe and realize, it is me. I’m the one without my finger on the pulse. And I need to continue learning. Also, I must be ready to cry, because we are all entitled to our opinions. In my heart, it’s not about the popularity, it’s the staying power. It’s creating something that doesn’t pluck a chord but strings a harp when one needs to hear such music…
Big Foot drawn last year for illustrated project

apologies for the cussing, sometimes there are no more perfect words than the most worst imperfect kind;)

the trickster mermaid

gripped in the shade black of this moment
not wanting to risk a toenail of sunshine
can’t lose anymore for fear of stagnation
along the path that leads to a colorless nowhere
hoping the road is paved with witches and warlocks and all manner of magic

if their wicked wands cease
so go the white rabbits
falling into the ocean
one leaping over the other
sinking like stones
where wicked wands and white rabbits must wait
for a one-legged, orange octopus to utter, “he is happy”

the trickster mermaid
a one-legged tale

it was many stormy fathoms ago that the orange octopus sacrificed his body
to a trickster mermaid who desired winsomely wild, orange hair
he’d traded his appendages for the promise of writing success
you see, his sea creature heart stowed dreams of penning a cherished tome

overcome by the trickster mermaid’s outrageous beauty
the orange octopus agreed to give his arms over
he didn’t think he’d mind as his eight arms often tripped him up
in this blinding moment, he’d forgotten the futility of holding pens without arms
finally when some sense returned to him, all but one of his arms remained
and the manic mollusc began shedding salty tears

being more partial to pepper, the trickster mermaid was unfazed until
she caught sight of her gorgeously curving tendrils
then a tiny pearl of mercy did she reveal
and the trickster mermaid allowed the orange octopus to keep one arm
(it was slightly shorter than the others anyway)

infatuated with her own outrageous beauty
the trickster mermaid watched her new curves sway as her head moved
she spoke aloud all the while staring at her reflection,
“my dear slimy sea thing, the day wicked wands and white rabbits sink to the bottom of the ocean
your arms will regenerate and your penned words will be heard”

the orange octopus halted his hysteria and quickly replied, “but my wish was for writing success”
still entranced with herself, the trickster mermaid parlayed,
“ah my dear, one-legged sea sucker, not even I can promise success”
she cackled viciously while observing how her hair swayed

then the trickster mermaid grew bored of the sobbing mollusc,
she left the distraught one-legged orange octopus with this,
“my dear, one-legged water waste, wicked wands and white rabbits
do not exist” she cackled once more then vanished into the deep blue forever

within his dour and damaged heart the one-legged orange octopus held out krill-sized hope
for wicked wands and white rabbits to one day appear
now all he needed to do was write

Mermaid Girl

Mermaid Girl

obviously this mermaid is not the trickster mermaid, this little lady has a kind heart;)

the S word

each one of us
gets stuffed into a human skin
and chucked onto the world map
from there shit happens
we bound around
based on how we’ve defined
the S word

my first recollection of this word,
a football cheer from way back
my high school years
saddle-shoed cheerleaders would sing out
“S-U-C-C-E-S-S
that’s the way you spell success…”
I remember thinking
well, I’m already not a
S-U-C-C-E-S-S
I’m not a cheerleader

for many
Success is easy
it’s simply surviving
to witness another sunrise

for those of us not focused on
food, water, air, health
Success becomes something
entirely different

what is it we want
when we have the “freedom”
to make “choices”

I end here
because it is not for me to say
this is an intimate and personal journey
I leave with just a thought

the S word
S-U-C-C-E-S-S
begins with
SUC

and that’s what it will do
if you let it…
baby gorillaevery gorilla species is endangered, today many organizations and individuals are working tirelessly to return these gorgeous animals back to a survival success story