Wednesday, July 26, 2017

Some Circles...

"Dangerous To Me"

They always tell me not to walk the streets at night.  But at the dark-witch hour when the mimes retire and old dogs prowl alone, I feel most at home.  I scurry my shadow between streetlights, ignoring the calls of their flashing lamps like a twisted-pedestrian criminal.  I speak to the sidewalk ghosts who sing to me their songs of sleep;  lift my fingers like a dancer-on-air and allow the heat of the city to seep between my toes before shifting my one-woman sideshow into the corner all-night diner for some charming cappuccino elixir.



Created for a digital art challenge at The Three Muses.

Vintage Beach Babes Collage Sheet

Hello artist friends.

I'd like to introduce to you Couture Scrap.  I'll be posting my free collage sheets and digital art elements there.

Every week I'll add something new.  Just remember to read the rules and guidelines on the right hand side of the page.

For this week I have for you the 'Vintage Beach Babes Collage Sheet.'





GO THERE to grab it now!

Tuesday, July 25, 2017

Snapshot Country

I do miss those carefree country days...



The words are mine.
Stock photo found via a google search.  

Saturday, July 22, 2017

Twittering Tale #41

            


Mid-summer solstice spun her anger, in a whiplash of sky-tears and tree leaves,  across city highway buildings and windshields hot of road grit.  (144 characters)

Weekly Haiku

Image result for woman words unsaid

Something Left Unsaid

A sultry whisper is lodged
in the darkest edges between
all the words I can't speak.



Image result for woman writing by moonlight


I Write by Moon-tide

My body made a shell,
flesh-pink against velvet secrets,
a whim stitched of moonbeams.

I Won't Lie, It's Semi-Autobiographical...



Into the Forest of Myself 

I have painfully learned
the principles of exclusion.
By morn I entertain
an empty room, speak
to the soul inside myself:
'come, let's drink some tea
and fold a prayer
between the lotus pose.'

I am other-worldly, that
small dark house behind the hill
that none dare enter
for the fear of yellow light.
It's only the antique lamp I read by,
and all those gents weaved between
the pages of yesterdays New York Times;
they sell to me their lusty prose
and, for a while, I don an evening dress,
love fervently with my body,
each pale, glowing limb
a beacon for some distant sailor.

And, come night, I dine
with the ghosts of my former self.
Like little historians
dressed in pink-on-black,
each one has her own story.

Friday, July 14, 2017

Man's Best Friend

"Gal's Best Pal"

She would always remember that day at the pound.  The rows upon stacked, metal rows of dogs yipping, puppies howling.  And then, the cage at the end, left wedged against the wall, where the tiny puppy sat.  He was pudgy and eight weeks old at best.  How his sad eyes lifted and his tail wagged at her, "Hello."  How she couldn't resist taking him home.
Created for an art challenge at Digital Whisper.

Rainbows!

"Rainbow Beach"

The sea awakened early that morning.  She longed only to escape into the deep folds of its serenity.  Her lover was gone again and summer had begun.  Soon the island would be full of tourists, it's ports quaking with the footsteps of strangers....and she would find someone new to share her coffee-smoke mornings, salt-dew mingling its Mediterranean taste between their kisses.


Created for an art challenge at Sunday Postcard Art.

Thursday, July 13, 2017

Sea Creatures

"Twelve Fathoms Deep"

Each night on the eve of twilight, she follows a still-water path of moon beams to the edge of a coral reef where she watches boats tread the waves.  There, hidden by shadows of a receding wharf, she dreams of the tall, tanned legs of sailors.


Created for an art challenge at Take A Word.

Twittering Tale #40

recordplay


It was well past midnight, but the champagne tickled her inhibitions.

"Go ahead, Harry," her breath against his neck.  "Play our song again."

Weekly Haiku Writing

Image result for reading under a tree

Summer Breeze and a Book

Each leaf is a green palm
that pushes the wind past the trunk
I sit beneath, reading.



Image result for stormy night sky

Before the Thunder

Amused by storm-clouds,
the moon spins his colossal tear-drop
between stars, irate of rain.



I try to use the 6/8/6 American-form Haiku as outlined by Natalie Goldberg.  

Wednesday, July 5, 2017

Sometimes the Words Just Come Out...

Related image


Strangers at the Crosswalk

Love laced itself
around her ankles:
a face-fall.
She turned her cheek
from the call of his hands,
while inside her head
she misplaced the
ghost of herself
inside his pocket;
he walked her spirit
across the city.
Her fingers lingered
against his hand-grasp,
a lie her body told;
still she let go
when what she wanted
most was to smear
the breath of her flesh
across his skin,
a private kind of cologne.
The mind is a fool
to detest such pleasure,
deny the attraction
of mortal sin
when life is so short.
Maybe next time she'll relent.
Perhaps when they meet
at the center crosswalk
of the city on the eve
of some festivity,
she'll be giddy of champagne
and smelling of lust.
And, senses piqued,
he'll push his heart
into her mouth like
a spoonful of
confectionery sugar;
she'll slide her soul
down his throat,
via a string,
for safe-keeping.

Weekly Haiku Writing




Walking the Beach Past Midnight

Ankle-deep in a dream,
my toes are wet with wandering,
white sand against foot-sole.

Inspired by a Weekly Haiku prompt.  We were to use the words ocean and shore.





City Streets at Night

Shy lovers shadow-play
across the wall behind my window,
cozy puppets on a string.


Inspired by a prompt at Haiku Horizons. We were to use the word wall.

Monday, July 3, 2017

Visual Poetry Monday #3



Humanoid Crash Source

We screen softly,
your network war droid
interfaced of my complete
giga-geek utility-ware.
Our wifi server is sexy,
every empire has an avatar,
and there's a sinister star-girl
creating a space-stream of
galactic password battle-bytes.
My native planet performance is
a linear share-cloud of drive upgrades.


Sounds almost cataclysmic, huh?   I created this magnet poem with the Geek kit from the Magnetic Poetry website. 


Thursday, June 29, 2017

War & Peace

The midweek prompt at Poets United this week was:  War & Peace.


The real experts on war are the casualties. 

War on TV

People across the TV
talk about war,
of nuclear attack
and atoms made
of chemicals whose
names I can't pronounce.

Well-dressed men and women
in clean-starched shirts,
clear-white smiles and
faces gleaming for the screen,
want to speak of the
starving children of Syria,
the many woes of Donald Chump;
As if enunciating the places
where these people die
will make any difference in
the lives that are left.

Go ahead, Mr. TV Anchorman
and get the sleeves of your
shirt as dirty as the dead men
and their children who are left
to wipe the blood of their forefathers
from the slabs of cracked concrete on
the street which serves as morgue,
all the while you worry about
the perfect brand of toothpaste
and the new creases that sitting
has left in your black dress pants.

Tuesday, June 27, 2017

The Blessings In Life Are Many...We Need Only To Look Around...

The prompt at d'verse today is:

So let us put pen to paper tonight and write a Blessing Poem. May our words create ripples of light and hope in the pond of the world.



Every Lost Highway Tells a Story
(But You Must Be Willing To Listen)

Nothing smells more like summer
than a car with a radio and
the windows turned down just so
the smell of wood and cedar
blushes the senses; late afternoon sun
penetrating a valley where the waters
of morning are still a little darker.
There's nothing more clarifying than 
watching centuries-old trees arise
from the ash of foliage and earth mirth,
rambling Wood Madonna's, light gathering
between the curtained shadows of their sea-green leaf,
and the stream beyond the rolling hills of
cliff-sides made impenetrable for the foot of man
so that there nature still gathers in her grandeur
of innocence, water-foul arching the surface
like so many pieces of silver dancing in light,
deer and foal and unblemished pine cone
in colors that arise jealousy from even
the most colorful of wordsmiths and painters.
Each side-stream becoming jewel,
so many midnight Saphires set in green velvet,
frayed only by the silence of a border
of evergreen where the trees converse
like nomadic Gods from some other Earth
their wisdom reserved only for the 
random passer-byer on the highway with
enough spirit-sense to marvel among the meadow. 

Visions of my Country Home

'Red Hillside Farm'  Artwork by Keith Foster


Color Set the Hills Afire

Tall grass rolls like ember,
each blade becomes a flame of light,
twilight has come early.


Written for a weekly haiku prompt.  We were to use the words 'ember' and 'flame.'

An Evening Sea-Escape...

'Romance of the Sea'  Artwork by Christian Riese Lassen


The Oceans' Edge

Wingbeats glow of starshine
and ocean becomes the moon's mirror
as tired gulls fly homeward.


I do the 6/8/6 American Haiku as outlined by Natalie Goldberg.  


Written for Haiku Horizons who asked that we use the word 'mirror' in our haiku this week.

Monday, June 26, 2017

Visual Poetry Monday #2

Just some magnetic poetry I created today.



Dancing Naked

night rhythm is
the blue blush of grass,
cloud broken by the
velvet wake of wildflower;
steamy star-glass kisses
and the caramel champagne melt
in a smoky cup of coffee.





Eat Teaching (For the 'Eating Disorder' Inclined)

I was color-deep
in bone chord,
hurt misdirected. 


Remember, you can create your own magnetic poetry straight from your laptop or tablet at Magnet Poetry Online and Word Mover.


Sunday, June 25, 2017

Beautiful Freaks Fest!

Meowwww!  ~ Yours, Truly.


Every Poet Is An Outcast

I once lived my whole life
wondering how to tame
the flame of my candle,
still the ash would transform
into a bowl-full of broken words.

My loneliness of being last,
the vast recollections of sad memories
for a girl whose music could
never beat in tandem
would sod my shine, they hung
across my neck like a cursed rosary,
kept me prisoner
of someone else's expectations.

Until one day after reading Greek lit,
(or perhaps it was the story of Madame Bovary)
in a crowded room of Marsha-Brady wanna-bes,
I bowed my head into the paper-scent
of a five-subject notebook and
created of myself a Goddess
carved of words and color, and
Fluid as the finest paint,
I danced into the fire.



Written for the Beautiful Freaks Fest.

Midnight in Marsielle (A Found Prose Poem)




Sun-kissed, with the taste of the sea in my mouth,   I drove along the fantastic roadway that flanked the sea.  I gazed to the north, awed by the wild mountain peaks in the distance, snow-capped and glittering in the Mediterranean sunlight.  I slowed the car to stall to watch life resume in a glimmering fishing village near the bay, flashing past my rear-view mirror like the still life in a roll of Polaroid film.  I couldn't help my tourists eye to marvel a trio of fishing vessels off the shore, the brilliance of a pink-blue sky, shimmer of the sea.

I watched the village rise before me in its street-light illuminated night-garb.  A cluster of cars were parked before the cafe.  Across the narrow street a raucous record played at top volume in a flat above the bakery, the forlorn lyrics undecipherable of a foreign dialect.  Over a rolling suburban hill of cobblestone and crosswalk, the avenue came into view.   Magnificent with its sumptuous shops, the cafes with their crowded terraces, elegant hotels and a cardboard sign that portrayed 'secondhand bookstore four blocks down.'  

Perusing a street I've never known, I walked self-consciously into the cafe, a stranger to me at this hour.  The lights were low and full of shadow.  Candles sat in netted jars on each table, wrapping the room in an early-century aura.  A sprinkling of local citizens sat over glasses of cheap wine.  Languidly, they enjoyed the view, the piquant-sea accent of the air.  Across the room, smoke-filled and wine-scented, a trio of Frenchmen were talking with loud contempt.

A few breath-beats after my order, made in broken French, the waiter brought my liquor and coffee.  I sipped the pungent taste of the liquor, my eyes glued to the shadowed entrance of the cafe...


**I wrote this found poem by gathering broken pieces of description in the vintage book 'Where is Holly Charleton?'  by Susan Marvin, 1973.

Wednesday, June 21, 2017

Summer Solstice Haibun




People-Watching

I watch out into the window of the world, two glass sliding doors.  There's a dark-chocolate colored couch with an avalanche of burgundy-silk pillows where stacks of books sway me into so many other worlds.   But the window beguiles my writer's mind, and my fingers itch to bloom basic interaction into something more profound.  Pen poised, I allow my muse to gaze beyond the ordinary.

Foot-falls sway beneath the heat,
as the city gives up it's secrets,
each walkway a world it's own.

Yoga Theme



The 10 a.m. Yogini

Every morning
I become a mountain,
rising like the ash
of Pheonix from deep sleep,
I awaken myself from
ankles to knees.
There's a tree outside
my window, a Weeping Willow.
I use it as study,
push my hands toward
the sky, and sway like palm.


Written for a prompt at Poets United.

Tuesday, June 20, 2017

Weekly Haiku Writes




The prompt at Weekly Haiku this week urged use to use the words 'darkness' and 'deep,'

Here is my contribution:

Dark City

A girl in blue hair walks,
She's six blocks deep in the darkness
of a blown-out street lamp.


Likewise, Haiku Horizon's wants us to use the word 'bright' as inspiration this week.  I sort of a took a twist on the original poem above and reworked it below:

Not So Bright

Anonymous footfalls,
a corner street-light has blown,
wind rattles tree branches.

Twittering Tales #35



"Ahh," Jenny greeted each sidewalk cafe the same.

She would unload her books, drink java, and dream beneath the streetlights of the city.



Find the weekly Twittering Tales photo prompt HERE.

Quadrille #35

Over at d'verse our prompt for Monday was:

as this year is the 50th anniversary of the release of ‘Sgt.  Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band’ by The Beatles, I would like you to write a poem of exactly 44 words (not counting your title), including the word pepper.

Here is my contribution:


Talking 'Bout the Young Folk

Somewhere in Iowa,
past the fresh stream
in the wood where
old owls strum their
tree limbs like
vintage guitar chords;
past farms with rickety
porch steps where the
dust-bowl ghosts still reside,
there's a restaurant
called Pickled Peppers
where the young folk stroll.

Saturday, June 17, 2017

Beauty

"The Pirate's Wife"

All the summer long she sewed the finest of silk, slept among the shell-white heads of dead men and awaited the white flags of her master's ship.


Created for an art challenge at Take A Word.

'Bees' Theme

"The Bee-Keeper's Wife"

She used to dive into meadows full of green and lily.  Eyes bright back then, and a head-full of dreaming.  These days the flame of new love has withered, her feet are itching to travel onward but this landscape holds her prisoner.  She walks country roads till her feet won't forgive her, wonders what life is like as a butterfly.  Unabashed by sunburn, she keeps conversation with the bees, because  even the sting is worth it to know she's still among the living.


Created for an art challenge at Digital Whisper.

Wednesday, June 14, 2017

Art Themes / Ideas / Prompts: For Exploration and Practice in Digital Art

I have purchased literally thousands of scrap kits from various sites over the years.  Yet, sometimes as I gaze through my folders, I struggle for a way to combine background images and elements into  certain themes.  Thus, this list is born!

I took a list of over 300 theme items from Go Make Something and then added some of my own ideas.

I will link my art to each theme (as I create it)....let's see how long it takes me to complete this list!

Themes:

60’s
70’s
80’s
Abstract
Advertising
Africa
All about me
Alphabet or dictionary
Altered photos
American fifties ads
Anatomy
Ancient civilizations
Ancient cultures
Ancient history
Ancient spirits
Andy Warhol (or any other artist)
Angels
Animals
Antique maps
Anything antique
Archetypes
Around the world
Art Nouveau
Asian
Astrology
Astronomy
At the beach
Au Naturel
Autumn
Babies
Bad art
Bad things
Bats
Bears
Beeswax
Best inventions in the world
Bingo
Birds
Black and white (or any color combination)
Board books
Boats
Body parts
Books
Bronze
Butterflies
Camelot
Carnival
Cartoon characters
Carve your own stamps
Cats
Celebration of the body
Celestial
Celtic
Cemeteries
Censorship
Chakras
Childhood
Childhood memories
Children
Children’s literature
Chocolate
Christmas
Circles
Circus
Cityscapes
Classical composers
Clowns
Cocktails
Coffee
Collage
Colors
Comics
Compassion
Conflict
Consumerism
Consumption
Costumes
Cowboys
Cowgirls
Crazy weather
Create your own goddess
Creative Life
Creepy
Crime
Culture
Cultures
Cupcakes
Cyberpunk
Dance
Dark and strange
Darkness
Day of the Dead (Dia de los Muertos)
Desire
Desire
Digital
Disguise/masquerade
Distortions
Dolls
Doors
Doors & windows
Dragonflies
Dragons
Dream landscapes
Dreams
Ecology
Eggs
Egyptian
Elegance
Elements
Elephants
Emotional self-portrait
Emotions
Endangered occupations
Environment
Experiments
Eyeglasses
Eyes
Fabric
Faces
Fairies
Fairy tales and folklore
Family Tree
Famous landmarks
Famous poets
Famous women
Fantasy
Fashion
Faux postage
Favorite films
Favorite things
Felines
Feminine mystique
Fibers
Figments of your imagination
Film
Flowers
Fonts and Lettering
Food/cooking/edible stuff
Footprints
Foreign text
Fortune cookie sayings
Found objects
Found poetry
Four seasons
Freedom
Fruits & vegetables
Full Circle
Fun
Gadgets
Game pieces
Games people play
Garden tools
Gardens
Genealogy/ancestors
Geometric shapes
Ghosts
Girlfriends
Gnomes
Goddess in every woman
Goddesses
Graffiti
Graphic Novels
Grasses
Great Outdoors
Growing Up
Growth
Gypsy
Halloween
Hand-drawn
Hands
Handwritten
Happiness is…
Harvest
Hats
Haunted houses
Head in the Clouds
Hearts
Herbs
Heroines
Historical costumes
Hobbies
Holidays
House & home
House of blues
Houses
Imaginary maps
Imaginary places
India
Insects
Inside Out
Inspiration
Instruction booklets
Italy
Jazz
Jesters and jokers
Joy
King Arthur
Kings and Queens
Labels
Lace
Landscapes
Languages
Lavender
Leaves
Leonardo da Vinci (or any famous artist)
Life’s lessons
Lighthouses
Literature
Loss
Lost
Lost things
Love


More Themes:


Retro Diner
Retro Fashion
Ice Cream Shop
Vintage Fashion
Sock Hop
Retro Ad Ideas
Vintage Household
Strange Family
Since You've Been Gone
Haunted Lady
Apocalypse
Zombies
Decorate a Room
Victorian Homestead
Funny Farm
Picnic at the Lake
The Drive-In
Film Noir
Black and White Movies
Dress Shop
Sidewalk Cafe
In the Kitchen
Sad Love Song
Any Song Lyric
Musically Inclined
Private Show
Fitness Girl
Shy Dancer
Candles
Vintage Romance Novel
Drama Queen
Retro Beach
Retro Clothing Ad
Highways
The Lone Traveler
Unemployed Boyfriend
Angry Face
Yoga / Yogini
Free Spirit
Soul Searcher
Girl Gone
The Lost Girl
Flowers in the Attic (V.C. Andrews inspired artwork)
Vintage Gothic Romance Covers (book cover inspired)
Retro Sci Fi Book Cover (book cover inspired)
Depiction of a Horror Story (inspired by a scary story)
Midnight in Venice




Places:

Yosemite National Park
Pacific Coast Highways, USA
New Orleans
Portland, Oregon
The Deep South, USA
Chicago, Illinois
The Everglades, USA
Las Vegas, USA
Ireland

Wine Orchard
Grand Canyon
Seattle, Washington
the coast of Norway
Pyramid Lake, Nevada
the Cayman Islands
Iceland
Biei, Japan
Stonehenge
Tanzania, Africa
Tunisia, Africa
Laos, Asia
Bali, Indonesia
Jamaica
Belize
Panama
Greenland
Greece
The Netherlands
Mexico
Australia
New Zealand
Cuba
The Cook Islands
Soloman Islands
Brazil
Columbia
Peru
Ecuador



World Holidays:
click here for a complete list
Macabre
Made up countries or lands
Magic garden
Magic of the ordinary
Magical creatures
Magical recipes
Maps
Marie Antoinette
Masks
Medicine and/or Anatomy
Men
Mermaids
Merry-go-round
Messy & Sloppy
Metal
Middle East
Mimes
Mirrors
Mixed media
Money
Monochromatic
Monsters
Motherhood
Motorcycles
Motown
Movie Posters
Moving parts
Murder
Music
Music of the spheres
My favorite things
My life
Mythological creatures
Mythology
Native American
Nature
Nature spirits
Newspaper clippings
Night
Nightmare before Christmas
Numbers
Ocean
Odd objects
Ode to famous artists
Office supplies
Old-timer cars
One image
Optical illusions
Out of Place
Owls
Oxymorons
Paradise
Paradox
Paris
Past times
Patchwork
Pattern
Pets
Photography
Photos from the attic
Pictures
Pin ups
Pirates
Play
Play on words
Poetry
Politics
Portraits
Postal
Postcard
Power
Pre-Raphaelites (or any artistic movement)
Printmaking
Protest
Puppets
Puzzles
Queen of hearts
Questions
Quotations
Race
Rain
Rainbow
Recycled materials
Recycling
Reflections
Resolutions
Robin Hood
Robots & spaceships
Roosters
Rubber stamping
Rubbings
Sacred spaces
Santas
Scary movies
School days
Sea
Seascapes
Seasonal celebrations
Seasons
Second chance
Self-portrait
Serengeti
Seven wonders
Sewing
Shattered Images
Shrines
Snap shots
Snowmen
Solar System
Solitude
Spells and magic
Spice
Spirituality
Sports
Spring
Steampunk
Stenciled motifs
Still life
Stories
Story lines
Storybook
Structures
Summer
Super heroes
Superheroes
Surrealist
Swirls
Symbolism
Symbols
Tags
Talking trees
Tarot cards
Tea
Tea Time
Teddy bears
Telephones
Textures
Theater
Things with wings
Through a Window
Throw away collage
Tim Burton (or any modern film artist)
Time
Time and Space
Time travel
Torture
Toys
Traditional costumes
Transformation
Transparencies
Travel
Treasure decos
Treasure maps
Tree of life
Trees
Trucks
T-shirt sayings
Typewriter
Underwater
Unicorns
Unreal cities
Un-themed
Urban Art
Urban moments
Urban vs. Rural
Use acrylics only
Use pencils only
Use the computer only
Use watercolor only
Using lace
Vampires and creatures of the night
Venice
Vintage
Vintage fashion
Vintage men
Vintage nudes
Vintage photos
Vintage voyage
Vintage wallpaper
Wall art
Water
Weather
Weird
Weird science
Weirdness
Where I live
Whimsical
Wild animals
Wild west
Wild women
Windows
Wine
Wine, women and song
Wings
Winter
Witches
Witch queens
Wizard of Oz
Women
Women heroines
Wonderful women
Words of wisdom
World Holidays
World Religons
World Within a World
Zen
Zetti
Zodiac
Zoom In





Monday, June 12, 2017

A Touch of Red

"Lady of the Night"

The eyes of the city are ever-watching.  Night folds her velvet blanket across black pavement, a silent slight-of-hand.  Business  men walk sidewalk mazes to fancy cars while women in evening-dress await dates too late to make a proper impression.  One lady sits amidst the shadows of a streetlamp.  Dressed in red and untouchable.  The darkness does not scare her.


Created for an art  challenge at The Three Muses.

Sunday, June 11, 2017

Silhouettes

"French Quarter Fireflies"

She spent her days reading tarot cards on the slick-backed benches of birch picnic tables near a cafe, common for the gathering of gypsy souls and the left-footed dancers who'd lost their way.  By night she'd gather words into a notebook atop her lap as the fireflies hummed beneath the ancient globes of streetlights.  Nothing's ever been as beautiful since that smoky city beneath cloud-break and moonlight.


Created for a postcard challenge at Sunday Postcard Art.

Clocks

"A Magical Time"
Time is magical.  A sphere of star-beam caught within a cylinder of light.  The certain gloaming of hour before midnight when fey and fairy and gnome delight in mushroom dance amongst the rosemary.  A moment when clocks stop ticking and, for a just a breath-beat, you'll wonder if what your eyes saw was real or whether you were dreaming.  


Created for a digital art challenge at Take A Word.

Gypsy

"She Dances"

"Stopping For A Drink at Mellow Brook"
Gypsy:  one who wonders.  A lone traveler.  She is the brave-spirit of dirt road, the seedling shine of some rare as yet unnamed country flower.  A troubadour for lonely stretches of highway where the sun dips into her smile and the moon shades her eyes.  She carries her heart, a tie between old guitar strings, lively and colorful as an aurora kind of night.


Created for a digital art challenge at Digital Whisper.

Saturday, June 3, 2017

I'm Baaaaack!

If you've visited in the last month you probably noticed my blog was made private.  I just really wanted a Spring break, I suppose.

I think a lot of times something fun (like a blog) begins to feel like a responsibility after a while.  And sometimes, when you are aware you have an audience of sorts, your work becomes more about serving the audience than being true to one's creative self...in which case the authenticity of what I write and create begins to suffer.  This epiphany forced me to rethink my purpose for continuing this blog.

Mostly, I blog because I enjoy creating (rather through writing or digital art), and sometimes I enjoy sharing my creative outlet with others.

So...here we are again.

I have promised myself to partake only in prompts that inspire me (hence, do NOT feel like a chore).  And to post whichever poems/art pieces I write and am totally comfortable with sharing.

Also, I have resigned from the idea that followers, comments, hits per day define my success as a blogger.  Maybe they do for some people but such calculations really have just stolen the joy of blogging for me.

So visit and comment if you like.  If you don't, you don't.  I'll still be around.

I also recently resigned as masthead from Pink.Girl.Ink.  (an online women's zine I founded a few years ago).  I gave the responsibility completely to my partner, Miranda.  Although I may still write articles for it from time to time.  Again, too much responsibility has simply taken away whatever joy I found in working on that zine.

Some updates to consider though:  I will no longer be doing my weekly writing prompts.   They simply feel more like writing assignments than fun.  And, well, hopefully my nine year college career is over now so I'd like to feel free of writing assignments for a while.



So, I'll be seeing you creative, wondering souls when I see ya.  Hopefully I will have some new art to post really soon.


Much love, and Namaste!

Wednesday, May 10, 2017

Vintage Beauty

"Beyond the Moors"


I imagine she's taking a leisurely stroll.  Captivated by her colorful beauty, the parrot has followed.  In the distance a tiny road through the moors leads to her little red paradise beyond the edge of a shimmering, cerulean-green sea (just out of eye-shot).


Created for a lovely art challenge at The Three Muses.

Tuesday, May 9, 2017

Retro Writes (Tuesday) #11



The Rules:

Welcome to my new writing challenge!

Every other Tuesday I will post some lovely retro-era eye candy as inspiration (think 50's-80's decades).  I will be posting photographs and advertisement ephemera that, perhaps, is quite different from modern day photography in hopes that it may inspire us to come up with parallels and concepts we might not otherwise make with modern art/photography.

Simply write a piece of poetry, fiction, flash fiction, or even create your own art-work.  Anything goes so long as you create/write something original!

Leave a link to your post so I (along with others) can visit and comment.  Please also link back to this page in your original post so others can find it.  

Most of all, have fun creating!


And now, for the prompt.


Retro Writes (Tuesday) #11



Look at the advertisement photo for a few moments and allow yourself to be inspired.



Here is my contribution:


The Songbird

Bettina would have
made a bad housewife,
for days on end she'd wrap
hours around the Edison Phonograph,
writing and rehearsing lyrics
to songs none other would
ever hear but her mother.
While the neighborhood girls
learned to churn butter
and swaddle-wrap young babies,
Bettina sang the yellow-faded
wallpaper to sleep, invislble
doves between her fingers as
she wept between the words
until one day, bless her soul,
the song finally delivered her
unto the gray-bearded sky-man
in a choir among the angels.

Friday, May 5, 2017

NaPoWriMo Day #30

So I finally have arrived at the end of NaPoWriMo for this year.  I'm five days late but it's a feat, in and of itself, to even partake.  I'm relieved to do my last poem for the month.  I think my poetic muse will probably hide out for a few weeks after this.  And I'm really looking forward to returning to all the great weekly digital art prompts.  I have missed my Photoshop something terrible these last five weeks, as well as all the kindred souls I meet via the art blog community.

Anyway, the last prompt at NaPoWriMo for this year was:

Today, I’d like to challenge you to write a poem about something that happens again and again (kind of like NaPoWriMo/GloPoWriMo). It could be the setting of the sun, or your Aunt Georgia telling the same story at Thanksgiving every single year. It could be the swallows returning to Capistrano or how, without fail, you will lock your keys in the car whenever you go to the beach.

I decided to write about morning.  After all, it happens everyday!  


In the a.m. of Everyday

Every different morning,
yet the day always tastes the same,
Robbins swing from tree to tree
like high-strung marionettes,
school buses and big rigs
choreograph their signals
at cross-ways where businessman
pause on sidewalks to shift
the heady hands of their briefcases.
The elderly man across the street
allows his dog to gallop along
the rivers edge, Spring breeze
lifting cloud from the edge
of the sun like a pagoda-shade
pushed to the wayside of the window
where I watch the world wake up,
coffee spilling across my lips
as the cat murmurs in his feline language
and licks my ankles as if to say
'we were meant to greet this day together.'

NaPoWriMo Day #29

The prompt over at NaPoWriMo today was :

Today, I’d like to challenge you to take one of your favorite poems and find a very specific, concrete noun in it. For example, if your favorite poem is this verse of Emily Dickinson’s, you might choose the word “stones” or “spectre.” After you’ve chosen your word, put the original poem away and spend five minutes free-writing associations – other nouns, adjectives, etc. Then use your original word and the results of your free-writing as the building blocks for a new poem.

The word I chose was 'brochure.'


Of Real Folks and Brochures

Appalachia in Spring,
most locals dream to leave
these hills where the moon
streams between thick trees
like a translucent wedding veil,
others dream of days grown
short by a drowsy autumn sun;
folks like me who live by
the season of night,
a world grown orange and bulbous,
the worldly folks who flock
to downtown benches where
they feed pigeons just for
the sake of the old poets' lost habits.
We dream neither of glamour
or beaches, not of tanned toes
or hot purple Lamborghinis.
We rendezvous by moonlight,
illuminated by visions of make-believe
and kisses made of bodies
real enough not to smear at
the rough grip-edge of one another..
If I must be real, I will proclaim
that I explore my lover with bare hands,
weave his memories of my words
with the same ink-stained fingers that
broke a slippery morning dish before
strawberries on the back patio
where the stream speaks his ancient
wisdom between the cat-call of
a lone red beetle, his wings floating
him into the same old small-city crevices
my feet creep past come evening.

NaPoWriMo Day #28

Couldn't really think of anything to use for the prompt at the official NaPoWriMo today so I just did a free association/free verse.


Might As Well Swim

I never asked to love you.
In defense of you,
you also never asked me to.
You blew into the door of
my life like an old memory,
an Indian gift best left unopened
but I couldn't resist the sharp
crave of my fingers for your skin;
I held them in my pockets for months
to avoid my fear of opening
something I innately understood
I'd never be able to will myself to shut again.
Like a twisted-vanilla Pandora's
box of erotica, you weaved your face
into the chain-braid of my daydreams
and for some time I vowed
I'd leave you there, a shelf in the corner
where dust could mar the half-meaning.
I promised myself never to love
anyone again with the excess of such desire,
cup-full of kisses overflowing, and
the simple part of your lips against
words, the only aphrodisiac I needed.
I sit, pardoning with the pieces of myself,
awaiting this river I know will wash
me away whether I wish to jump,
or greedily take that first swim,
though I'm sure it doesn't matter anymore
'when' if I'm already wading into the fire.

Wednesday, May 3, 2017

NaPoWriMo Day #27

Although I did steadily write throughout April, my posting fell to the wayside of real-life responsibilities.  I am almost caught up though.  Only three more poems and I will have completed the National Poetry Writing Month for 2017!  It will be a relief!

The prompt at NaPoWriMo today was:

Many poems explore the sight or sound or feel of things, and Proust famously wrote about the memories evoked by smell, but today I’d like to challenge you to write a poem that explores your sense of taste! This could be a poem about food, or wine, or even the oddly metallic sensation of a snowflake on your tongue.

Cups Upon Cups

The kitchen was my safe place,
a world away from the world
where hands were always busy
butter-dipping or bean-breaking or
cake-mixing a vanilla-bean concoction
that, even at age seven, tasted like
a dream when mixed with the coffee
I would sneak from my grandmothers
pot in the dining-room where a
white dish cabinet rested old-fashioned
perfume bottles and vintage trinkets
I dared never to touch for the
memory-sake of my ancestors' preservation.
Yet there was always the hot smell
of coffee, Folgers in a red can, and
I remember well how my father
would dip his measuring spoon
into the grounds every morning, like
a magic that would repeat itself, then
again each evening after-dinner
we'd all drink as the day broke
into night sounds and gray cloud.
Unbeknownst to me, I became a
connoisseur of the coffee bean; it became
a mainstay for my memories.
I failed to realize this, until recently,
how well I acquired the taste:
stopping by random campus coffee shops,
stepping into every franchise cafe
that crossed my route between small cities
and buses and cabs and temp jobs, and
how, with each cup-grip, I was
sipping the proverbial nectar of some
days gone long past, the coffee a mere
emblem of comfort, a piece of the
innocent calm my life once was,
a time that can never again return.

NaPoWriMo Day #26

I was not inspired by the prompt at the official NaPoWriMo page, so today I just did a short free-write.

Late-Night Retroflection

On these sultry
pre-summer days,
I like to roam
the downtown district,
my belly empty,
dreaming of sixteen.

NaPoWriMo Day #25

The prompt over at NaPoWriMo today was:

In 1958, the philosopher/critic Gaston Bachelard wrote a book called The Poetics of Space, about the emotional relationship that people have with particular kinds of spaces – the insides of sea shells, drawers, nooks, and all the various parts of houses. Today, I’d like to challenge you to write a poem that explores a small, defined space – it could be your childhood bedroom, or the box where you keep old photos. It could be the inside of a coin purse or the recesses of an umbrella stand. Any space will do – so long as it is small, definite, and meaningful to you.


Where Country Roads Claimed Me

I suppose I'll always be
fond of country greenery,
of whippoorwills and red-breasted robins,
the smell of bacon and garden beans
and tiny little hillside kitchens
where raspberry bushes grow at
the edge of purple wildflower,
so many colorful flowers whose 
names, to this day, I still know not.
And, although the inner city blues
have claimed me 'otherworldly' in their 
magnificent trade of street lamps,
an illuminating dance of moon
against telephone wire and bird-speak,
somewhere inside me there's still
that girl who squeezes her own lemonade,
who warms her toes by a stream
where tadpoles swim their magic and
squirrels mate in the distance where
bright green leaves shimmer in the 
sun like glitter for all the young girls
who still enjoy a summers-day dream-sitting.

Tuesday, May 2, 2017

NaPoWriMo Day #24

The prompt over at NaPoWriMo today encouraged us to write a poem about an art piece.  I decided to write about some of my favorite art:  the vintage pulp horror/gothic romance book covers!

Dime-Store Cover-Art

Sometimes I wonder
what they were thinking,
all those women running
from the blurry silhouettes
of overtly-dark houses
that rise in the background
of leafy-green trees on moors,
or rocks atop mountains
meant never to be scoured
by the mortal hands of man.
All those houses with one
bright window like the
eye of night, invisible
mouths of doors ready
to swallow screams,
those dark and silent
vintage pop-art tombs.