This is one of the paintings I showed at recent Art Scene in Rockford. Lots of people liked this one with its landscape quality immersed in abstract elements of the stuff on the beach. 24’x30. Acrylic on canvas. $700.00
Daily Archives: April 22, 2015
We should bury our assumptions.
I’m talking full-scale, full regalia funeral …
teak wood coffin, hand carved with the faces
of the fallen; those who did not measure up
to pre-planned notions
in our dramas.
Mute assumptions lurk behind our words,
always introduced, after the party is over.
Here is the guillotine line:
“I thought YOU, of all people,
would know THAT, about ME!!
So the head of that constitute is
lobbed into the basket
Oh the life and times of illusive agenda’s,
unfulfilled expectations, assumptions!
The funeral is tomorrow
When we find out things about ourselves,
uncover blind stitches in our truth,
threads held together by anger
for a long time,
it all comes unraveled.
There is something gentle in awareness,
Black-eye lists turn to ashes
in bright light.
Amen, amen, amen, amen …
Mad floats away in transparent bubbles
Between the stars and
mundance cash flow,
tightropes are the access routes
our only transportation …
Unless of course,
we learn to FLY!
We swore to banish lies, vowed slingshot truth.
With sober oaths to real boysenberry johnnycakes
and homemade cottage cheese,
we were stalwart advocates of authenticity.
We made nearsighted promises.
Neither of us noticed meany-mind hobgoblins
sprouting out of each straight forward,
well intended observation.
We beat each other half-to-death
with blunt verbiage.
We named it honesty
but an ugly duckling hatched,
truth is: critique kills sunflowers.
Od to the peevish pledge
to rational romance.
It turned us into tedious, fretful
chunking out love’s eulogy.
We are like balloons …
bumping around in a dark room
with the fan on high.
Dog-eared logic says, “Living blind”
must have purpose since
“Pin the tail on the donkey”
appears to be the game
we came to play.
I could tell good stories
about my forays in forbidden bushes,
arms extended feeling full of hope
for finding just the place
to pin my tail.
If we could gather in my living room
most certainly the stories of our
hunt for happiness would entertain.
There would be hooting, howling,
rolling on the floor with laughter
at the telling of our exploits
in the name of “right results”.
I suspect, because I am an optimist,
there is a doorway hidden in plain sight.
We pass by it every day, but the
muddle of our busy minds and
our hot pursuit of nowhere,
causes us to miss the opening.
Maybe the doorway isn’t singular,
maybe truth belongs to individuals only
maybe the doorway isn’t a door at all
maybe it is a painting or a poem
or seeing the good in people,
even in a dark room.
Braided in corn rows
problems embrace reasons.
Like a brides wedding hair
they interlace in patterns,
one cannot exist without
So should we take one half
of the equation out, reason …
the problem disappears.
I first saw you when I was seven,
in the lilacs behind the house.
You looked like a gypsy.
I followed your barefoot prints
into deep water … Color had to save me!
Red reached out, jerked me back from
drowning in too-tight places.
You pulled your painted wagon into my heart
set up camp, waited for me
through the drama years.
I finally learned I could say “No” …
It took a long itme.
The jingle of your bracelets
tending spirit fires eased my pain.
Blue released me back into the wild.
Symbols splashed on canvas
words darted like barn swallows
out of the shadows, into my ink.
One stick at a time I dismantled
my cage of self-doubt.
We sat by your fire at night,
planned my escape.
I couldn’t have done it without you …
Wild woman of my heart,
Sacred mother of creation,
The One who speaks authentic.
Open the window – Snap the sash up
let the fizz pour in. Welcome neon feet
that skip in carbonated chaos
leak light under the dark door
waltz naked in your tidy room!
Swing a pulsing garden hose
around your careful head,
squirt possibilities in all directions.
Let thrills run down your decorated walls
to puddle in forbidden places,
pale two-way mirrors reflecting back
the “other” you,
(Ipona’s wild fairy daughter
you disowned at twelve years old.
Fill hollow bones with yellow pollen,
send corn silk prayer flags up the wind.
Circle love-hips in red hula hoops
of purple motion. Sing your joy to real.
Because great grandma was an English lady, we all learned table manners.
It was encoded in the blood line, an invisable directive from the past.
No matter the tin cups we had for drinking. Poor did not excuse
bad table manners. …… So when my grandaughter questioned
all the flury around holding forks and cutting tiny pieces, I explained,
“You want to know how to eat properly when the queen invites you to tea.”
Fast forward some years, my grandaughter says:
“I was very mad at you when I found out there was no queen!”
Fast forward again: She will be grateful for the skill when
she finds out she is the queen! (Metaphorically speaking of course.)
Speak mystic magpie.
Call Raven, Crow and Hen
to fire the feminine.
Red painted nails flick sticky words
at art, chase down metaphor’s with a
staple gun. One stone drops
to the bottom of fifty years,
sends round messages returning on themselves,
spins drama from perception’s spider silk.
She rewrites her resume’ impurpetuity,
maid, mama, artist, gardner, grandma, goddess,
lover, indian chief, expert, in charge of
crop circles …… alias; Poet.