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. 😘
These graphic/art/word combos are such fun to do. Reminds me why I had an interest in advertising all those years back. I love the marriage of art and word. Thank you.
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
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
She grows into autumn alone
The seasons, solitary
A huge house and a small fishbowl
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
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)
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
I might even get to know what it is I don’t know
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