She is young,
this artist-self celebrating discovery
He chastises enthusiasm,
this intellect-self, favours logic over emotions
I use disability as an excuse
Accept intellect’s restraints Ignore encouragement Refrain from submitting Halter progress
Youth has ambition
her paint spattered hands grasp at opportunity – her tender heart emits a joyful tune..
having abandoned ambition, is hard of hearing. (Art mine)
a shift of focus – tired of the clash of colours stimulation overload – my muse is leaning towards the nuance of black and white
A study of shadows
and shading and how light arouses the soul
Speak to me in subtleties
she whispers in tones suggestive of hidden depths; I am listening
And so I submerge myself
clear the palette of vibrant hues and take up the lowly pencil seek the promise in colourless world.
first appeared here August, 2020. Art mine) Colourless Expressions
No one told me,
in my haste to grow up, that adulthood, awash with responsibility, would also be lonely
And, no one told me
that the days and nights of sweating over lessons would likely not lead to the life imagined
nor that commitment –
the kind portrayed in movies – does not exist – the word itself bearing more substance than the act, fickle as it is
No one told me that
motherhood would change my reality permanently, colouring it with unfathomable pain and joy – such juxtaposition
And, no one told me that
every battle I ever arm myself for, regardless of its justification, is really a struggle with self – inner demons the most menacing.
I never imagined that age,
with seismic force, would alter my perspective so – leave me barren and yet enriched, enthralled with the ordinary and unfazed by the rest
And, in the end, as I watch
the vernal rains announce renewal, in the quiet of my solitude, I am amazed and grateful for all that this crazy, driven life has become and that no one ever told me.
(This is an edited version of a poem published in April, 2019. Art my own.)
Coordinated by the curator of our local art gallery, the poetry circle partnered with a photographer to create
The Minimalist Eye. Yours truly has two poems featured in the project: Slanted Orange and Big Red.
To see the full exhibition, visit the virtual tour:
So fortunate to be part of a such a vibrant community. As a bonus, the collection has been published.
I balk at your constraints jettison the traditions that propagate hate
Future is an open road
I do not hesitate – Yes, there is uncertainty Yes, I’ll make mistakes
Vulnerability will conquer pride
mind willing, convention I’ll shake
In illness, I am passenger –
no matter how venturous mind’s reach, the raw truth is that limitations confine
This is not a sentence
for some perceived crime, but a re-framing – attitude shifting to acceptance
Choice becomes thoughtful –
time allows for that now – and gratitude takes hold in every corner of “I can”.
(Art my own)
Cast my shadow over white banks
assert presence: proud, defiant
Will find beauty in deserted places
and colour in the monochrome
Haunted by a Winter state of mind
resolved to stretch despite chill.
(Image my creation)
Too much black
Too much colour; Fashion out of sync
Too many calories
Extra weight a turnoff Comparisons cut deep
Stop being anti-social; Friendliness invites abuse
Children need their mother
How do you plan to pay? Better find a job.
Beaten by criticism A lonely marriage
Narcissism cares not Road is dead-end
Take the leap True love begins with self.
(Image my own)
The woman currently abiding
within this costumed realm is merely a lethargic version of the once vital but oppressed Miss, whose identification was stolen by means of unsolicited adversity.
The focus of this recanting
is to invite a perspective that not only restores, but aids in the teaching of other shadow-selves, that to reassert original nature is more than fair.
(A quirky rant for Reena’s Xploration challenge:
a stolen identity ; and Eugi’s weekly prompt: shadows. Art my own)
I remember Jasper
how we drove up in that bolt bucket drank grape soda from the dime store listening to Dylan
How the mountains
echoed our loneliness the answers we sought turning us inside out – I dream of it still.
(Tuesdays, I borrow from Twitter @Vjknutson
Art mine – an early attempt at watercolour)