happiness is…

this is one of those rare instances where I call upon my face to serve as art replacement – I believe I was about 16-17 years old here – I do remember the t-shirt – very fond of it at the time – Happiness is a German Shepherd 😘

descending the stairs

Light enters the foyer, he hears me descend the stairs
All fourteen oak planks slammed by my humping feet
His morning routine proceeds uninterrupted
It is I who must accommodate him every morning
He yawns and returns to slumbering on the sofa
I make oatmeal the same way every day–
blueberries, pinch of peanut butter, water and a splash of almond milk
Occasionally, red strawberries
I ascend the stairs with my favorite bowl still warm from the microwave
Without fail, he follows me
He won’t make his own breakfast and I always share mine
I know he loves me
I must believe this

The urge-to-express forbids genuine rest
All who write or art would say the same
We descend the stairs daily
Make our work
Then push ourselves into the closed arms of others
If what we’ve made is enticing it will be swallowed, ingested, absorbed, eaten
A chance of being crapped out forever nipping at our heels
Still, this incredible urge compels us
If what we create each time is desirable–
they’ll climb the stairs, even fourteen oak planks, again and again

Wish I knew my writing and art were appreciated
as much as the damn dachshund loves my oatmeal

Homage Picasso/charcoal

 

 

a garden of peace, child

A garden of peace, child
Bowed lips, each a cherry blossom petal
Cheeks, satin and pink-rosed pinched by heaven
Your small hands–the hands of an angel, clasping their hidden treasures of bees balm and forever dreams
Diamond clusters of baby’s breath adorn your wrist, delicate dewdrops on wind and wing
How your dark chestnut hair swirls with endless copper beech highlights–so warm and inviting, the soft yellow ducks have come to slumber beside you
Blankets of hyacinth and lavendar protect your perfect skin, white as daffodils
You, a beautiful, sweet Lily, to forever bloom in the loving heart of your adoring mother and all those who cherished and nurtured your blessed life
for my cousin, Marie and her sweet, Lily

Forgive me, dear women who were fifty

Please accept my apologies
dear women who were fifty
when I was twenty
you women nurturing children in the world
when I so casually whirl my polished hair
crop top hiking up my iron-flat abdomen
Forgive me sweet ladies
you women who were fifty
when I was twenty
you women rising, thin-lidded and lined
as I saunter by your commuter wheels
nearly naked, fresh breasted and easy
Will you vindicate me
kind women who were fifty
when I was twenty
for the times I fluttered my wicked lashes and smiled coyly
at anyone, maybe your lover,
perhaps your husband
I pray you absolve me
good women who were fifty
when I was twenty
you women warriors scarred by life’s weaponry
if my flipping fingers and cheeky laughter
interrupt your seasoned reflection
your focus on work, on family, on meaning
on all I will not know
and can not know
until my car is stopped at a red light
and I watch myself saunter by
regretting how I never once thought of you

joy august ripsaw

a cause

there is no right place for me to rest these weary bones
you have not the strength to support us both
too much time wasted on indecision
domestic odds
often in your favor
the satisfaction I need
the want I must satisfy
is to be found in a cause
I’ve not yet a name for

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