Grace

Placid waves

wash warm

Over toes, knees,

belly to breasts.

Drink in sun.

Float

cotton-candy clouds

framing

rose,

lemon,

sapphire

sky.

Community and Creative Process

I have lived in artistic communities since early adulthood. I love the energy, feel it even when I am alone in my room. There is affirmation of the value of creating within an art community. There is knowledge that process is important. The energy in a community where people participate in the creative process helps generate ideas, even as we disagree about the relative value of specific pieces or particular forms of art.
Art for me has been a means of keeping an even keel in a crazy world.
Often when I create, whether a poem, a painting or a song, I don’t fully understand the symbols and juxtapositions of ideas until much later. Art is not a way to recreate reality, but distorts reality in order to fully portray it, like a curved glass will focus the sun’s rays on a single point, and result in a fire.

photo of Baltimore rapper Wealth making a music video in Savage, Maryland.

Protection

Holding babies,
Making art,
Singing loudly
In the rain.

6/3/2015

Spring is the time of death.
Look out the windows;
Mist and memory drift
from the verdant hills.

At road’s curb,
mangled
bat wing
slate sky.
I drive.
Death lays.

Hamburg & Russell Street

Morning,

the young beggar stands,

blanket thrown over narrow shoulders,

flimsy white undershirt,

a pile of rags at his feet.

We in cars ignore him,

cast eyes at ruby stop light,

and rising cobalt sky.

Escaped sunflower,

sits in a car, a

moon faced woman

w/ styled bob,

reads her cell phone.

Wheeling seagulls

search for garbage.

Undershirt,

dull khaki jeans,

work boots,

he smokes the 2nd cigarette of the day,

carefully counts them out.

He carries his sign

with jaunty steps,

but

his eyes

are hollow.

full moon recall

dream
salt sea foam
clams scurry
dig themselves
into sand
as the waves recede
we are young
i wrap
burgundy and cobalt
gauze scarf
about my torso
my nipples show
i reach out
to touch
your silken sandy curls
as cigarette smoke
sinuously rises
your voice rumbles
weakens my knees

Transition: July 25, 2016

Dark night,

sea seeps into sky.

I make footprints,

sand soft against my soles,

soft against my soul,

dipping my feet

at the ocean’s edge.

First light fills the sea.

Sable brushes

against sky.

Ebony ripples

topped

by pale whitecaps.

Still,

the sea is monotonously calm.

One small wave

lands at my feet.

Clouds fall into horizon.

Sky grows lavender

and pale azure,

flaunts charcoal clouds.

Rain

comes.

walk.

East,

stirring of orange glow.

By my right shoulder,

moon peers through clouds.

Sandpipers descend

from

wherever they spend the night.

Feast on

tiny shoreline organisms.

Nimbly avoid

the sweep of waves.

Race forward

and back

from water’s edge.

Skim across the sand

in a motley crew,

in a ballet of

choice

fate.

Now,

Bach’s major chords.

Lemon, rose, violet commingle,

create

a path to the horizon.

Clouds consume rising mist.

West light expands.

Sun capers

in cloud mountain peaks,

rises from the sea.

Indigo clouds stretch,

unveil coral cumulous,

so fluffy

I could eat them.

Cloud column rises from sea,

lays against green sky.

Thunder crashes,

booms.

Lightening cracks open sky.

Heat leaps from sand.

Moist

heat

rises,

cocoons me.

North turquoise sky,

dusky blue ocean.

I turn south,

purple horizon,

salmon undercoat,

azure and lemon overlay.

Creation

every day.

Someone Else Wrote It

Recently, I opened a notebook from a few months ago and found lovely drawings and stories that I didn’t remember doing. I had intended to write on the leftover blank pages but started viewing the work. It felt like I was looking at someone else’s work.

I often put aside writings or paintings for at least a month or more after finishing them, before editing them or making the final touches. When I come back to the work, I have enough perspective to edit words severely, add an extra line of paint, or eliminate a too busy portion. Sometimes I just note what I liked and what I didn’t like about the piece, tuck the piece away, and use that information to inform future work. Then, I move on. I figure that good work will emerge about 1 out of 10 times, if I’m lucky that day. This doesn’t bother me. My artwork is done for my own entertainment, catharsis, and meditation. The final product is merely a by-product of the process. But occasionally, when I look back, there is a lovely sensation of satisfaction of having done something well.