Tag Archives: Art

It’s 9° with a Slight Chance of Snow


oil painting from the Sand Lake Ambulance collection – for sale

Cold settles cruelly in your head
It chases you quickly into bed
You cover every part you can
Yet still it clings, so unwelcome.

Open the cupboards
And there it is
Hiding in corners
And dishes and things.
Take off your gloves
And it appears
Slip them back on, and whoosh! Disappears!
Open your coat, it rushes back in
Wrap on a scarf, add on a hat,
And so you presume that is that!
It’s crushed for a moment,
Put in its place
But then it strikes back
It lashes your face.

Oh, cold, how I wish you would go, you must know
I shiver to think of all the snow
That lingers behind as you exit the scene
It stays for a week, sometimes longer it seems.

‘Tis very annoying to shovel so much
I’d rather be drinking from a tea-cup
And savoring winter on the inside
Watching through windows, people slip and slide
While laying about, safe and secure
Dreaming of summer spent at the shore.

Ah! Snow!


oil painting from the Sand Lake Ambulance collection-for sale

Ah! Snow!
Those tearful winds do blow and blow
Blow round and round
Above the ground
And only they know where they’re bound.

Oh! What wonders are!
No snow did settle on my car
But seem it did to parry first
Then hurry with determined bursts
And blow and blow determinedly
Into my neighbor’s yard, you see!

‘Tis sorry I be for his grief
To shovel snow, so many feet
But next time I shall not escape
From winter’s rage and stormy fate.
Yet pleased I am that for today
I may remain in bed and safe!

Oh, That I Was Shakespearean

In France they liked me yesterday
Today it was the USA
Tomorrow who knows where they’ll be

Oil painting part of Sand Lake Ambulance collection for sale

Oil painting part of Sand Lake Ambulance collection for sale

As long as they do follow me.
I know it’s been some time since posting
But that should not indict my hosting
Just say hello, I’ll say adieu
Should you so like me, I shall too
Though rhymes be silly, fractious things
I hope they put a smile on wings
That take you soaring, flying high
For miles and miles up in the sky.
Oh, that I was Shakespearean
Your heart would open up and sing!

Subway Love


To Massi


problems and worries
one on the other
way too serious
why do I bother
so reading is better
than writing right now
but thanks for inquiring
I’ll try a lot harder.

Winter’s Holiday

lamb blog
In winter’s white
The open field is swallowed in a foot of snow
Another and another falls
Till nothing on horizon shows.
Then antler disappears, though buck stands six feet tall
And bull a breadth beyond that height–
The world outside is very white.

Then quick return to hearth and home
The blankets beckon, no more you roam.
Till spring melts in a river flow
And summer flowers bow down low.

Oh no!

Oh! Très bien! Très bien!
Uno or dos
I seem not to know
Whom I like most.
I count on my fingers
Five – up to ten
And then I begin
To count them again.
This is quite fun
Having you here
To read all my gibberish
When it appears
And though I do know
You’re all very busy
I can’t stop myself
From making us dizzy!

Can’t sleep…

This isn’t heaven
The clock says
I’m slowly fading
Yet here I wait for 2:14.

Now its come
And now its gone
The clock still runs.
To be precise
I cannot last
And now I crash.

No doubt at 3:22
You are dreaming the whole night through
Yet here I sit, you see
The clock displays 3:23
And should I think to wait some more
I’m sure it will say 3:24.

By now my mind is wandering
A half hour I’ve been pondering
So with surprise I find I’m vexed
It only says 3:26!


No sounds
Not summer’s heat
Nor winter’s chill
Though snow is 15 feet
And Fahrenheit soars to 100.
Then watch hurricane Irene tear your heart
In consort with the wind
As crops disintegrate
And mud swallows up your life, your dreams
And follow her from flood to famine
The inexhaustible dryness of nature’s vengeance
Burns body and land.
A tale of change, a warning to a world asleep
A scream without a sound,
As plunderers make their way
Through primeval forests,
Pristine lakes.

Life, filled with discord

Oh Jane.
Your life, filled with discord, rolls by
A paranoia unprotected
Your life
So convoluted you cannot know
What pain is real and what is not.

Jane, you are a true and beauteous moment
Of god’s own glory and nature’s bliss
Of loves’ lost and loves’ awaiting mist
Of minds beliefs and minds believing grist

You can surrender, though you would not admit
What your own mind tricked to assist
The venomous regions
Of life’s beguiling twists
That you alone have seen the coming end
Of wife and husband
No love, I can assure.


father of your heart

A dad is a father. A father of your heart, a bastion of your dreams, a stalwart of your beliefs. My father is the one I loved, to hold me in my times of need, to comfort all life’s cruel injustices.
Oh god, how have I failed! My father is deceased and I have not rendered him his worth, his truth, his justice. I am unconsoled, for no other knows my failure. Remiss in this life, will I pay for it in another? Can you degrade a father, diminish his worth, devalue his existence? Shall I genuflect? Oh God, should I but honor his life, would I release the longing in me that prevents it, the need to tear apart his self, for his was a betrayal of mine, a denial of another’s life. Forgive me, padre, abba, father of my dreams. How often have I longed for your attention, and fear prevented me from asking, do you love me? Do you know I exist? Do you know I need you? I am but a frail child, alone, adrift, filled with self-loathing for being unloved. And you, yourself unloved, how could you know this? Were we not the same? Alone, apart, we could not touch, there was nothing to say. Controlled by others, by our concepts of others, by our convictions of others deeds, we were silent. How I longed to hear your voice in concert with mine. Would we not have been so perfect, a perfection to God, an understanding between father and daughter? You have betrayed me as much as I you. Strike me, strike me dead that I may know the pain that crossed your path, that ate your soul, that forced you from forgiving those around you. Love I have now, as then, but I would not tell. Can love be hidden so long without it bleeding? So dark is the blood of my tears I cannot tell you the horror it sees, the pain of centuries of unforgiving. Why cry? Ask yourself a thousand times. And a thousand more, for it is a waste of time to think there will be an answer.

Love lust

You watch as he pushes—up, down, up, down—repetitive movements—each time the arm and shoulder muscles define into chiseled shapes, then soften; a form without excess—solid—chest, arm, head, neck, torso, thighs, calves—solid. You, 20 feet from him, think of those enveloping arms as he thrusts into you. His breath, even and paced, as he enters his love, his muscles hard and then a glimmer of sweat and breath quickens as he pushes his arms into the bed—you underneath—this massive solid structure that could crush you, slowly eases down and presses his head into your shoulder with soft murmurs of thanks. You breathe in his scent even as he breathes yours, for what else in this kingdom smells as fragrant as a man after making love?
What defines that first attraction—the musculature, posture, stance, sway of his hips? Is it the smile, voice, eyes? Just the idea of the tips of his fingers grazing your skin, his hand lighting on your shoulder. Is it the color of his skin—warm brown—soft white? Is it the fit of his clothes” Or the memory of lovers past?
And what is repulsive? Body art? Excessive flesh? A body too well fed? And age—both repulsive and attractive. Youth that thinks too much of itself, age that has not accepted itself. A grace of time upon your face, a joy of each hour in your life. So I search for your pleasure in this passing existence.
The curves of woman can be as seductive as of a man. Nay, even twice as. To touch such flesh (without being touched back) is as exciting as the idea of being touched (without touching.) What is it to see pleasure in another’s eyes that derives from you? Your very existence is validated, your life expunged of all wrongs and evils by the pleasure your presence gives another.
A life of too few joys. His flesh caresses mine, soft sensuality weeps to my heart. A presence against me, I am succored by him in sleep, in dreams I avail myself of all he is willing to offer and will deny him nothing. So I am whole, so I am one.

till habit do us part

It becomes a habit.
As though habits are what makes one.
To have it done out of habit.
Is habit contentment or confinement?
I habitually strangle my inner self by succumbing to the habits of a lifetime, defined by others.
I am a creature, yet habit is what irks. It is not virtuous, this world of habit. This necessity of action and thought that closes the walls, shuts the doors, blocks the light from my eyes, the wind from cheek, breath from chest, terror from mind.
Aye, habit, thou cruel and formless thing, stealthily approaching to steal away my life, contort my mind. Thou makest me, and at the same time shears me asunder. I am your victim, your lover. I genuflect before you. The weight of you is inconceivable. I have no other before me. It is you at my side, in my shadow.
Off of me. I beg. I command. Leave go the weight that drowns what little time is left, carelessly relegating my soul into meaningless perpetuity. Leave the mortal drown in her own demise, not yours, not others.

What say you?
My thoughts, whose are they?
Contrived and bitter, lost years and desires, eaten by habit into emptiness. Turn round, and by habit I am content, even happy, in the small accomplishments of my life.
But these are walls I never scale, that block the world beyond. Repetitive actions. I accomplish the same thing, over, and over, and over, and am content that this one thing, this least of all actions, has been done, and my happiness from it is all that is needed.

It is but a screen.
A tactic to hold me back.
A habit that keeps me safe from exposure.
Exposed from what? From whom?
From myself, of course.
Without it I might succeed or diminish, but I would be me. I am neither.
And so I write to tell you, to warn you,
There is no time left
We are close to death

Love, beloved

It is about love. To wake up and feel warm, a warmth only bestowed by a beloved, the one who lies next to you, though still asleep as you leave that bed, that haven in the night, that place of repose, of comfort and consolation, of quiet both mental and physical, to beat the morning light, to challenge the day anew.

It is love you want, I want. More easily given when gotten, bestowed on the bestower, revealed to the revealer. Love me and I will surely love you. How I can, how can I not help but love you, creature of my soul, whisperer of my dreams, husband of my heart. There is no band upon my finger that could bind as hard as that which lies within me. Is that not the greatest test? Can a sheaf of paper have locks and keys more quick than my soul? A soul, a heart, a dream, all you are to me and I to you, all that life is meant to be, cannot be shoved into a drawer, confined, relegated to be filed away, meaningless if its signers have given up, acquired disdain and disregard. If the paper has more import than the love it meant to bond.

fatal power

Love is a fatal power
Swallowing whole your immortal soul
Love is an infinite world
Leading you through the garden’s gate
Love is a grandiose game
Playing the strings of your heart
Love is your one true friend
Lighting the depths of your firePA250242+2

higher and higher

There was a young dog named Squire, who longed to climb higher and higher
Alone on a ledge, he jumped past the hedge
And started to take a real flyer.
Then out of the blue, his mother came to
Calling “Dinner is on the fire,”
and “life is too short for you to abort.”



See double. See triple. What else do you see. Who is there for you. See no one. Or only one. The one is a ghost, vision of your past, seamlessly entering your mind, blurring reality with images of before. Before you were alone. Before you were without. Before you stopped living.
Do you remember when you were alive? Flesh and blood still warm, mind coherent, thriving. Now cold, moribund. Only the motions of the living are there, packaged neatly to cheat others into accepting your continuance, an existence, empty, useless.
A fiction. As you pursue words, the ghost takes shape, reaches out to embrace, and vanishes with the dawn winds. A fiction. You wait for night once more to conjure your past, form its body, grasp its heart. You remember. The pain of your life, the pain of your love. You remember. The thrill of your life, the thrill of your love. You remember. The awkwardness of your life, the awkwardness of your love. You remember.
Time dulls the tortures you endure. Your self-inflicted pain. Like needles in your arm. The pain becomes a source of pleasure, a place where you can go, safe, away from life. Indulge yourself in the pain, let it be your reality, where no one else can enter. Yours alone to soak up, to enervate you, to anchor you. It will keep others distant. It will exist for you alone.PA250242+1

are you not

Cuddle. Hug. Cry on a shoulder. Repent. Say you’re sorry. Admit foolishness. Admit stupidity. Admit ignorance. Admit uselessness. Defenselessness. Loneliness. Sheer terror at living. Neediness. Needing someone. Never ending feeling of isolation. Fear of contact. Fear of friendship. Fear of existence. Paranoia, sadness. heartMissing. Missing what. Missing missing. Wishing you were missing and could never be found. Hiding. Hiding without ever being found. Found out. Who you are not. Not who you are. Why you are not who others think you are. When you don’t even know who you are but that you are not the person others think you are.

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