Tag Archives: writing

For My Friend, Who Thinks She’s Lost Her Words

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I am writing this for my friend
who thinks she’s lost her words
who thinks her words
are trapped beneath rocks
who believes she doesn’t possess the thirst
to move those dry mountains
my dear friend
needs to know
her words, those languid thoughts
the beautiful ones under the rocks
will seep into the rich black soil
decompose
reform
then be carried onward by industrious insect and
cyclical underground element
until they flow into jostling aquifers
cascading into wild rivers
roaming up as sparkling wells
into crystal waters that feed bubbling fountains
in thirst she will sip
and those wet words
her words, will quench her imagination
saturate her parched muse
and her pen will flow once again
with the beauty
she thought she’d lost
somewhere along the way

Turquoise Eyes

Turquoise Eyes

Dedicated to my dear friend, Deb who has done nothing but encourage me to keep writing even when I  believe (as I do often), I am anything but a writer…

the other side of the rainbow

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“we’ll find a way of forgiving”
is this true
wouldn’t that be beautiful
not to end
in hatred
but to persevere
in love
“somewhere over the rainbow”
because we can’t stay on this side anymore
we learn to cherish
internal not eternal beauty
of children
of people
of humanity
that rainbow keeps looking better
on the other side
green lush, pure blue
conflicts end with handshakes
not burning holes
what color there would be
what a brilliant world we could live in
we’re but one side away
if only

SImon Says Peace

Simon Says Peace

Created last year for a dear blogger friend–Simon Tocclo, a man of action trying to affect genuine change in Liberia. Among his many social platforms, Simon can also be found through his blog, Liberian Me

“We’ll find a way of forgiving,” borrowed from, West Side Story
“Somewhere over the rainbow,” borrowed from, The Wizard of Oz

Birthdays and Band-Aids

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We cannot protect our children anymore than we can make ourselves less vulnerable to life. The best we can do is arm them with self-confidence so when their young, conflicted minds step into those ‘precarious’ fields the mantra, “I’m better than this…,” whispers like a gentle school bell, muffled beneath piles of internal clothing.
maxThe big son is still young. He turns fifteen this week. Like many others of his ilk, he enjoys sports. ‘We’ made it through another wrestling season uninjured and now it’s on to football. The big son is a gentle soul by nature–a pacifist at heart. I know it’s impossible to ask for such a divine favor as to keep one’s child completely safe while playing competitive sports, so I’ll just ask that he has fun and only requires a Band-Aid from time to time. And of course, I also ask that every child participating in sports this year remains safe. I know it is a tall order and a selfish prayer.

Last year the big son said to me, “I’ll feel bad if I hurt anyone, mom.”

I responded quite motherly, “Then tackle your opponents with love, son.”

I glanced up at the sky and prayed, “And God, I hope my son is tackled with love too.”
Love TackleLove Tackle, created last year with Prisma pencil. Partial post previously published around this time last year.

Happy Birthday, Max!

muse trident

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long before tears conspired
to pour the four oceans
the ancient Greeks acknowledged
a lone muse could not satiate
a human’s desire
and ten divisible by two
too dull in its perfection

in cerebral court
it was decided
to incite
tridents of meditation
three groups of three
to wage ongoing battle
in homage to originality

perhaps
we humans need to believe
inspiration does not dwell within
and creative stimulation
is something to unleash
outside ourselves

muses
nine
still may be
too few
blue horsesyellowed horses
inspired by avant-garde artist – Franz Marc’s, gorgeous colored horses, all of them

our blue boys

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the mantle has been empty far too long
I’ve been meaning to create another portrait
what else is an empty fireplace wall for?

it seems an eternity has passed
since working with a linen base and liquid pigment
pencil and paper are sometimes sorry replacements

on August 3, I set out my paints
and selected a canvas
large enough for a big dog
yet, not overwhelming
for a little one

our last Shepherd, Chama was a regal type
her stoic beauty typified her grace
I did my best to present these qualities
when I painted her formal portrait in 2002

Appreciating

our current dogs
hmm
Rocky the Shepherd
Mojo the Dachshund
what is it about this dynamic duo
that makes my family laugh often

they are quite goofy
yet, they can be fearless too
as small dogs usually go-
Mojo’s 13 pounds sees 90 in our Pella glass door
and
while a Shepherd cuts an intimidating figure
most times
Rocky acts quite silly

when conceptualizing a portrait
there is but one goal–
doing justice to
the subject(s)
outlook(s) on life
natural as the air they breath

in the case of Rocky and Mojo
I’d say joy
and since purple was not quite right
I chose the colors of a
blissful sky, a wistful ocean,
an icy fruit-sickle on a steamy day

our blue boys…
blue boys.largerBlue Boys, acrylic – 3′ x 2 1/2′
finished a few days ago, in between doing loads of laundry – ah, if only they could help with the chores, now that would be something 😉

Chama (Chama the Shepherd looking at her portrait), oils – 2′ x 1 1/2′
painted in 2002  (sorry for poor photo quality)

giving

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yanking a thread from the soul
that’s what it is
one filament at a time
you unravel

note by note
composing
soundless symphonies
for the outside world

dreaming
word by word
form by form
every infinite limb
in the universe
becomes rapt
in your pursuits

then
one day
there’s nothing left to give
only
what you’ve made

and your efforts
are either remembered
or forgotten
two horned blue birdcrazy blue bird, created a few weeks ago with Tombow markers and Prisma pencils, while in a feathery mood 😉

maternal nightmares

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scary baby masklittle witch babies and tormenting black skies
gusting wind
long dark dresses swinging like death bells
a frail newborn with antlers growing
crying out as it tries to lift its weak neck
ocean-deep in salted sweat
those early months

panicking…

a pink infant
without bony deciduous growth
or skull-sunken cheeks
seventeen Halloween moons gone by since,
those first seconds
one more fall harvest
until her
perfect little face departs

dreaming…

scary baby mask, mixed media rendered a few weeks back…
the first time I was pregnant: during the first trimester, I had many bizarre dreams–some were nightmarish, others surreal like Dali paintings…my oldest is now 17 and college planning is on, lots of positive dreaming 🙂

sippin’ shit from the satellite saucer

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dude won
sippin’ shit from the satellite saucer
that’s brain milk in there
did you know?
swallow hard and wait for the
Mensa explosion
a thousand stations
to blow your mind out your ears
snort reality
heady up
here comes the gong show
whoa, get your damn greasy stumps off my pristine screen

dude too
looks soreal

dude won
that’s surreal, jack
hey, step back from the ultra hd
and hands off her ass
you’re crapping up my visual

dude too
freakin’ sharp ass glass
realist trip I ever fell over
‘n I slept in a needle
space powder in my orfeces
oh wait, shit
orifecal holes
man, her ass is sublimb-ded

dude won
you’re pot ROASTED, jack
SUBLIME ass and yes, it is
now repeat after me, “ORIFICE”
hey, get your damn hands
off my ultra hd
I already wiped your last scum off there

dude too
shit man
yer satellite saucer
runnin’ outta menses milk
you got one of them cage-free cows
back there in the yard
maybe hangin’ out in them cannibal plants

dude won
you must be allergic to dairy, jack
that’s cannabis
you fuckin’ idiot!
cow pasture with bullcows brought to graze in 2008, find the little green bull…
Experimentally expressing 😉

He Doesn’t Care, poem published in the Avocet

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he doesn’t care

he doesn’t care about crowns
he doesn’t know he is a king
his only kingdom is survival

we attached a silly moniker
for his magnificence
like we determine specie classification
all listed below us
we name each
for the natural beauty, grace and strength
we covet

we only become great with great effort
not like them
who fly, leap, run, swim
in a way that makes us
desire trophies

we manufacture superiority
how we love roaring
we are the rulers of this earthly kingdom
you are only, King of the Jungle
because that’s what we named you…
Lionessdrawn with prisma pencils a few years back

 

no mint breeze in the rain

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many have written about rain
how the rain makes you lonely
endless drops echoing in an empty chest
the cold of them creeping up your shirt
shudders into the back bulge
the obvious dullness of the sky
over-burdened clouds unable to ease the mind
wind maybe, no breeze
delicate mint leaves collapse
they don’t know the end of it
never do
endless repetitive pings on pavement
no playing on the drooping lawn
  sucking mulch beds
engorged suburban septic sours
the smell can be bad
so the rain
it is wet
it is sad
it is dark
for a big-eyed kid waiting for the storm to pass
boy with green glowing eyeswhy this face? I’ve no idea…more crayon playing and yes, it was raining.
For Fawn – may rain come your CA way
(there is happy rain, I was in a melodrama moment-perhaps I shouldn’t write while drinking red wine 😉 )