my crayon box

hmm, this might be sixth grade-don’t miss the snap tie and blue knee socks
awhile back I wrote about my childhood crayon thievery – if you’d like to read just tap the magic red here 😊

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cloistered

unsaturated the paint on my silent gal portrait, another writing piece dusted and remade-thank you

JOY

Holidragon

There are very few pieces of my art that stick into my soul, this joyous beast holds my heart in a warm place.
I wish many joyous moments–for each and every one of you–in this wondrous season of magnified love. 😘

‘baring’ her soul

this figure was created from leftover palette paint I didn’t want to waste – she sort of just materialized – sometimes it’s liberating to paint a nude form when it arises naturally from the earth – not contrived for a whole host of other reasons

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

bitter lioness

Shuffling on the dry balls of your padded paws.
Impermanence, your affliction.
Hard exacting breaths from decades of sauntering.
Protesting each movement to fling earth’s weight from your mind.
The weight must land elsewhere.
No more burning up the open plains.
Alive with dullness.
You, a bitter lioness.
Working bones unasked for fractional effort.
Heart wanting recompense from both moon and sun.
Roaring from miles away at injustices served.
Laying waste to shared land.
Sour notes break into others’ dreams.
The bitter lioness will disappear.
Upon the shrinking sands, an old lion slaughters its cubs.
And all other reminders of its imminent death.

Lioness after Lunch/Prisma