Archive | January 2019


sheer s

remain steep,

you are caught
in the waning light–
insubstantial, particled,
a quintessence
mythical and undisclosed—

you are nowhere–
not down, not up–
you are not returning
soon, ever, or again–

you are
you are



A quadrille for dVerse considering the word steep.

sheer close up 2s


Landing on the Other Side

the other side s

My bones are
white under my skin
(also white–
but different,
not bleached or hard–) and yet you
answer by asking

for eaten
words, invoking crow–
to legend,
once white too)–bearing omens,
consumed by riddles.

How far will,
then what?—the black bird,
the human,
arms outstretched
unfeathered above waters
that drown the questions,

quench courage.
Spinning children of
the moon!—(all
shadows with
the same skin–)
What light lays bare,
its absence enshrouds.


My poem “Landing on the Other Side” is included in The Ekphrastic Review’s Franz Kline Challenge responses.  Kline’s painting is above.  My thanks to editor Lorette C. Luzajic for once again featuring my work.

the other side close up s

Wonder Bread

The Wonder Bread factory in Paterson. When they baked you could smell the aroma across town. Schools used to tour the factory and they’d give you a mini loaf.

The ProCreate version. Printed out on paper and messed with.

Girl playing the guitar on ProCreate and then printed and messed with. That is a pretty good replacement right now for now having a spot to paint.

Flying Shoes (a sonnet for Townes Van Zandt)

flying shoes 1s

“Days full of rain, sky’s comin’ down again
I get so tired of these same old blues, same old song
baby, it won’t be long ‘fore I be tyin’ on
my flyin’ shoes, flyin’ shoes
till I be tyin’ on my flyin’ shoes”
–Townes Van Zandt

The leaves of autumn linger in my mind,
disturbing the returning of the sun.
I thought my time of shedding skin was done.
Instead I crumble, fragile, in the wind
that blocks the way before I can begin.
The threads I gathered turn away unspun–
the landscape ebbs, and with it shelter—one
by one the seasons falter, fall behind.

If only I could tie myself to stars
and rise, my surface shining like the moon,
my sails like wings that shimmer in the sky–
I’d find a motherland in my guitar,
that I could voice with harmony and song–
a refuge where my dreams could wake and fly.

flying shoes close up s

I was listening to Lyle Lovett’s 2-CD salute to  Texas songwriters, “Step Inside This House”, which includes so much wonderful music including four songs from Townes Van Zandt.  There is a mystery and a melancholy to all of his music, and “Flyin’ Shoes” has always been a favorite of mine.  Townes died in 1997 at age 52 after years of substance abuse and mental health problems.  I hope he’s got those shoes tied on tight.

I wanted to try another sonnet for the dVerse challenge this month.  This one uses the Petrarchan form, which has a very different rhythm from the Shakespearean.  I’m still reading my way through everyone’s sonnets, but I want to thank dVerse for providing such a good forum to explore this poetic form.  I’ve learned a lot from not only my own attempts at writing, but from seeing the variety of responses.

I also used the Secret Keeper’s prompt words,

And here’s Lyle.


ProCreate and sketching

Fooling around more with ProCreate. This one I did, printed it out in color and drew over it.

A sketch of some dancers out on a lawn.

A cold but welcome weekend here in Northern NJ. And as a bonus the sun is shining–always good.

amidst a fierce and wandering tempest

tempest s

tempest magnetic

I was thinking about winter, and considering both Colleen’s prompt words, cold and storm, and Sue Vincent’s photo prompt below.  The Oracle definitely surprised (and delighted) me with the final line.

ancient roots murmur
beneath frosted clouds of trees–
wind bursts into song

tempest close up s



near stitched s

The end is
calling—ice spiders
weaving nets
the unrelenting blueness
with crystal cold

Stripped down
to sheer form, chanting
bleak, bitter–
ancient songs of Boreas–

Gods become
disassembled bits
and pieces,
fabrications floating on
seas of sinking air

like final
notes of silence pitched
into the
void, cutting
holes with each unspoken word,
unthreading needles

Failing to
transform, to be borne
or reborn–
the years spin,
contracting—the lines
fall, disconnected

A poetic response to the January prompt at Myths of the Mirror, above.  Somehow working in blues always leads me to stitching…in this case I painted two circles and cut the smaller one up and stitched it on top of the larger one.

near close up 1s

Also linking to dVerse Open Link Night.

near close up 2s


Better with color 1/24/19

Yesterday’s drawing colored in. I guess it’s why coloring books were invented.

Quick landscape (for Kerfe) in calligraphy pen, colored pencil and other stuff at hand. I’m still not set up to paint and I’m a bit frustrated. But sketching, especially if I can manage it every day, will give me painting material when I am set up!

Sketch just in calligraphy pen.

Pouring rain here in NJ, dog looking balefully at me. I’m not walking him right now. Peace out!

Couple of drawings 1/23/19

I started doodling with a ballpoint pen. I know artists have done some great drawings with ballpoints. Red tailed hawks are always a good subject.

Then I tried my calligraphy pen. I just got back into that due to doing a coworker’s wedding invitations. I was scratching around trying to get it to work; it finally did and I drew over/around/through it.

Doodle in fine line felt tip.

I still don’t have a painting spot set up. We’re shuffling things around in the house. I know I could theoretically paint at the kitchen table. Anyway, may put some color(ed pencil) on these.

Moon Sonnet

blood moon s

Its light spills out from everywhere—the moon–
a lantern in the sky, a mirrored sea
projecting the between of tide’s return,
throwing its questions at infinity.

The landscape shimmers, particles on fire–
breathes in, impatient, waiting with the stars
for orbits to conjoin as shadowed blood
that spills out, falling into otherwise.

Bewitched by moon beams, pushing into pull,
the spirits of the night become themselves–
a coiled diffusion standing in two worlds,
a melody that casts the wind with spells.

Transparent on the air, invisible–
the ancient shores of galaxies still call.

DVerse is featuring the sonnet form this month.  I always have difficulty with sonnets , which is why it’s taken me so long to compose even one.

blood moon close up s

The clouds cooperated and gave me a chance to see the magical moon last night.  It’s beautiful this evening, too, and equally enchanting.

moon eclipse comp