Poetry in Pictures

Bloomin shroomin

oil on black paper 11 x 14"

Does a bladder matter

Does a tube need lube

Do you have to go to Sydney

To get a kidney

Do I have to have a transplant

Just ‘cause my body can’t

Do what it’s supposed to

Like some magical voodoo

Does a heart start

Every beat

Can a lung

Catch up with its feet

Does a liver look like meat

Can a brain

Be trained

Is my blood

Like a flood

Of pain

And love

Is a spine

Fine

If it doesn’t break

If it doesn’t whine

Can a mouth laugh

Can it sing

If it can taste

And waste

Words

And eat birds

woman who holds white feather

oil collage on denim

I chose the case study Melinda

because she reminded me
of the little girl and student
that I used to be.

At such a young age
she was gentle and mild
not like other gifted kids
who can be outspoken and wild.

In the fifth grade
I too was quiet and shy

and much like Melinda

teachers didn’t ask why.

But underneath Melinda’s

unassuming guile
was a linguistically creative

friendly resourceful child.

Although she was known
as an exceptional reader
it was only by circumstance

that she’d shine as a leader.

Melinda’s teachers did not
provide her an earlier chance
to demonstrate her skills that
would have helped Melinda advance.

A schoolwide enrichment program

that had students working together

Melinda would have revealed
she was more than just clever.

Showing deep concern
for a disabled younger peer
her investigative interests grew and

Melinda’s empathy appeared.

Recruiting younger and older students

as protectors, artists and writers
she inspired and motivated her peers

as her ideas grew like wildfire.

A mentoring extensions provision

giving purpose to all
her gifts as well as others would

not have been forestalled.

A systematic diagnostic

prescriptive approach
would have sooner identified her

impressive ability to coach.

In addition to student records

surveys and tests
mixed-ability and cross-grade groups

would enable teachers to assess

students like Melinda’s
educational, social and emotional needs

in the inclusion classroom
where all students can exceed

Common Core State Standards
that alone do not always give

benefits of differentiated curricula

compact, accelerated and collaborative.

Aligned with cooperative learning

alternative to traditional education

using an autonomous learner model is

ideal for Melinda’s situation

With a learning contract in place

making it clear what she could expect

setting specific goals to see that

outcome expectations were met

study guides and independent study

prompting room for incubation
and applying inductive methods can aid

content research and product creation

Challenging a gifted student with

abstract components is essential

including advanced topics that incite

their greatest learning potential.

Applying process-based strategies
in formulating a product design

Melinda’s critical and creative thinking

could be dutifully refined

with graphic organizers and

structured content instruction

Teacher’s lessons should also include

flexible learning options

that make learning fun and inviting

with activities humor and games

that are entertaining and exciting

not monotonous and mundane

Student performance can then
be measured with formative assess

as teachers adjust their curricula

to ensure every students’ success.

Assistive and effective technologies

are likewise a helpful tool
in the heterogenous classroom where

Melinda attends school.

In addition to honing language arts

evolving from teacher-directed plans

to independent self-teaching
where all students illustrate they can

develop their abilities
while setting their own pace
that makes learning more appealing

not a stressful competitive race.

This also gives teachers access

to analysis a few clicks away

for summative assessments where

data precisely displays

students’ advancements and problems

so that teachers can address

students like Melinda’s needs

modifying lessons so they progress.

Creating visual art projects
is another crafty way
to embed learning opportunities

into tactile play.

So are musical endeavors
that use rhyming and timing
to stimulate auditory and visual senses

improving memory and signing.

A normal part of learning
is allowing plenty of mistakes

without giving harsh criticisms

or disappointed looks that take

a toll on children’s confidence
self-esteem and motivation
teachers need to smile and laugh
to stir self-expression and self-determination

It’s quite true that Melinda is
a persistent and talented kid

although for several years
her social and linguistic gifts were hid.

But as all children are special
and have their own unique profile

with widely varying curiosities

characteristics and styles

it’s a school’s and teacher’s job

to bring out all students’ best

no matter what a child’s ability

disposition or interest.

And even though it’s important
to have diverse programs and provisions

children learn superlatively
if teachers have a deep conviction

believing that all students deserve

to be treated kindly with respect

and positive regard that makes

learning an enjoyable experience.

the birthing tree

oil on low density polyethylene, the image is seen both front and back

19.5 x 15.5"

Maui bought me back to life many times. I can't forget the feeling of being born again and again by its waters, its mana, its people. Walking through Makawao Forest Reserve was my favorite place, even more than the beach. I wish I could bring that smell to these words now. The rich scent of eucalyptus forest invigorating the senses. One time, four miles into the hike (it's about a 7-mile round trip) I stopped with my kids to enjoy the scenery. With the sun scattered in rays upon a large grove of bluish feathery fern, a small boulder was sitting in the middle of the path. I lifted it out of the way and underneath we discovered a centipede nest with hundreds of newborn centipedes. Their mama wasn't around, but what a site to see.

Inner city

oil on black paper 11 x 14"

If I can’t control, I’ll comfort

If I can’t sing, I’ll whisper

If I can’t dance, I’ll tap my feet

If I can’t love, I’ll endure

If I can’t leave, I’ll be happy that I stayed

If I drown, I’ll fall into a river of my own tears

If I lose you, I’ll lose everything

If I find myself, I’ll find everything

When I’m scared, I dream of monsters

If I’m brave, I’ll dream of fighting monsters

If I can’t fly, I’ll swim

If I can’t swim, I’ll float

If I can’t float, I’ll sink like a sea nymph and the water will be my home

If I give, I’ll give without condition

If I live, I’ll live without expectation

If I hope, I’ll be thinking of someone else because I forget how to cope

If I lose my faith, I’ll find it in the tide

If I lose my way, I’ll follow the stars

If I get caught in a spider’s web, I won’t struggle

If fangs of a snake pierce my flesh, my blood will drink the elixirs

If I see it will be with my heart

If I think it will be with my hands

If I love it will be with my soul

If I wake upon the finding of truth, its shadow will follow me

If I write, the words will dissolve inside you like cotton candy

If a story has rhythm then my words will be music for your eyes

If it be a language of peace and serenity, let me be the translator

If I should encounter violence, I’ll protect the innocent and draw my weapons

If I should paint let it be for the suffering whose souls are aching

If you are black, I am blue

If you are green, I am white

If you are red, I am dead gone

If in lucidity I shift into jaguar, I will walk heavy and breathe fire

If I forget wrong from right, I will pray to a god I don’t believe in

If I can’t be sorry, I’ll be glad I did it

If I can’t be sane, I’ll scream and rant about religion and politics

If I can’t find a home, the sand can envelop me with its crabs and flies

If I am unlovable, I’ll learn to live for more than just love

If you shatter, I’ll collect your strewn remnants to piece together

If I shatter, will you collect my fragments and mourn with me?

If you lose your mind, I can show you how to find your heart

If you yell, I’ll show you how to curse too

If you’re an addict, I am the drug

If you are in puppy love you’ve been cautioned as I am an alpha wolf

If you are the world, I am the cosmos

If you plead guilty, I’ll end up doing the time

If you pretend, I’ll believe you and pretend too

If you lie then we shall lie together

If we stay together there will be pain

If you can’t hurry love surely I can expedite the process with money

If you can’t have by love what you could have by force, then fight with all your might

If you can’t beat them, try harder

If life gives you lemons yell back

I WANTED LIMES

If an anchor sinks, I am the chain broken and lost

If looks could kill, we’d be extinct

If you won’t take turns, I’ll just take mine

If my wrist is cut, let it bleed

If my ashes are buried with a seed, I’ll return with the sun and water

If the dirt beneath my feet shall swallow me, the earth will become my life

If my words reach you, may they comfort or inspire

If your words reach me, may they comfort or inspire

If words are used like birds, mine fly quickly and unexpectedly

If a mother can leave a daughter,

a daughter can leave a mother

If a son turns into his father, you’ll know you have failed as a mother

If the pastries burn, then cook the cook

If hell hath no fury, I’ll make up for the lack

If self-fulfilling prophecies are real, then hand me my rattle

If you are a fool, I am the rain

If you see in black and white, I am the shades of gray

If I ask for permission, I will keep my promise

If you are a thousand cranes, I am the folds in your white paper

If you are the sun on a rainy day,

I am the torrent of clouds rumbling beneath you

If you can’t tell the truth, I will

queen tree

oil on black paper 11 x 14"

QUEEN TREE

The bad sister never fought with her inner demons. They always played on the same team. She had lied and thieved her way into the royal seams in her armor of charm—what weaponry to cajole a king. If not for the love of one man Phoenicia would have forever remained a lonely tree at the end of nature’s corridor.

She had come from a den of snakes and spiders. An evil Eden of black seeds that housed the caldrons of cackling maidens, unmerciful mothers, and crones who had been the very disciples of Baba Yaga. Phoenicia had tippled the broth from the boiled bones of bad children--a resurrection stew better suited for the bitter. She had been enticed to sup by lacy smiles that bit and curly locks that strangled. The cruel women who had nursed her had cursed her. To stay alive, she was sworn to stay with them and do as they had done. In symphonic ceremony, rattles, ashes, sand, and hands prompted her to partake in a cacophony meant to appeal to her injured instincts.

Bewitched by the salvation granted her, the temptress Phoenicia cried an anthemic potion that dispelled green revelations running rivers over the truth, and with the elixir of death all her light was swallowed into vacuity by the ring of sardonic demon-weavers. Nary a malediction had poisoned Phoenicia’s pure heart. For although her words were filled with resonance, her soul would never be ruled by such contempt, not even in the killing of love.

On a dark moon she slipped under the porch awning and wandered into the forest. The black seeds had trusted her, for they were confident their iniquitous ought remind Phoenicia of the promise she made to them for having saved her life. She had danced in the fountain of hate to the drumming of evil’s eye, and was taught to laugh at the groans of tortured men. Yet there she was—her long blue slip, stained and torn. Unfettered by her own innocence, she looked back over her shoulder to see if anyone had followed. The din of water rose in a distant refrain, as she continued to march beyond the deep groves of thorn trees that led her down to the river. And, as Phoenicia drifted further from the wicked temple, she kept to the sound of the rushing rivulet, which chimed in reverberation of all that remained untouched by the impureness of atrocity.

As the sun rose, she was exhausted and fell asleep. Her head rested on a pile of cool, moist leaves. The stench of dirt clung to her motionless figure. When she awoke, travelers were approaching. The sun was far in the west. Hooves echoed and people were laughing. It was the kindest music she’d ever heard. When King Oshtu first saw Phoenicia, standing among the fern, she entranced him. He, tall with a chiseled face, ignited a fever inside of her, as together their eyes met for the first time. Since that moment they consumed every day together, and the nights in his private chambers were rapture. He soon took her for his queen, and although Phoenicia was happier than she’d ever hoped to be she wasn’t able to put it out of her mind that one day the black seeds would find her, and take her away from her seraphic life. She had forsaken the she-devils who had once found her raped and beaten in the woods.

Phoenicia wanted to live as a peaceful warrior, but she’d been caught in a war between bloodthirsty immortals and incarnated demons who possessed the loveliest—the children and women. Her impeccable king couldn’t ever know the spell that had been cast upon her. She would have rather died then for him to have known of the activities she sauntered in. When Phoenicia departed the fane that night she was looking for redemption, not vindication like the others had been. When the malevolent tirades finally found where she was hiding, as Queen Phoenicia, they were able to reach her regardless of the dogs, thick walls, and mighty shoulders that had kept her secreted away. The sinister clan tore her into little pieces, and buried her parts inside the large crevice of the myrtle tree where they had once found her.

Phoenicia’s stuffed fragments, in time, had merged with the new growth that invaded her muscle and bone. She was waiting to be unleashed from the burgeoning cage of leaves, vines, snow, sunshine, and star-shaped flowers. Her destruction had become her greatest desire. She prayed for the man who could take her by the roots, and bring her into his fire, her beloved king.

In a rage to be set free, her rustling, tuneful restlessness sought and slayed soulful lovers looking for an isolated haven, while she dazed between slumbers far at the terminus of a topiary maze. Lifting and pulling yellow cylinders into piles, green slopes cascaded into a dark abyss. Muddy footprints, soft and fresh, dotted the mossy cobblestone lit by a wrought iron lamp that slept in a radiant trance. Beyond the wild rose gardens, a wide dirt road stretched between trees that purred and pawed at the passing clouds. Gentle breezes caressed crumbling shadows in the pansy dusk.

Oshtu stumbled up to the great Myrtle. His mouth hung open, his eyebrows furrowed, and without resistance the king fell prey to the web that glistened within Phoenicia’s low-lying branches. Arms and legs hung, tangled and rotting in her twisted clutches—her angry twigs yelped in the curling air. All who had dared to pick her blossoms, and taste her sweet nectar, they belonged to her. She lived where the dead come to be kissed, where children heard the Archangels sing to manifest energy into reality. The Holy Grail, an inveiglement for which the only punishment was an endless search for what may not have existed.

Oshtu stepped further toward the tree teetering over the uneven lumps that squirmed under his soles.

“Where is she,” he uttered to the air, as if it were a lonely friend.

“Chances are, you wouldn’t believe, King, what has happened to the lovely Queen.” a strained voice creaked from the darkness.

Coils of branches slipped down, and shuffled the dirt in a dusty haze blurring his boots. Thin roots snaked around his ankles.

“What? Who... ... how dare you!” Enraged and stunned, Oshtu squalled, “Where is she?”

His face was flushed—his cheeks etched like bulging pomegranates. He hadn’t known where the sounds had escaped from, as his fingers grasped the heavy metal strapped to his waist. His maddened gaze, as if blind in a room of light, stabbed into the nothingness. His head angled this way and that, still foraging. He called out, “Phoenicia! Phoenicia!” He had been searching for a long time, and this was as close as his journey would have allowed him to finding her. “Oshtu. Oshtu. Oshtu. Oshtu. Oshtu...” Phoenicia’s soft chants penetrated what was left of the sinking light.

“Phoenicia,” he beckoned. Her melodic echoes, nipping at his pink ears, were eager to quench Oshtu’s thirst for Phoenicia’s sobs. A sacral hymn, as if on wings, traveled along the light of the moon. Phoenicia had become pieces to a puzzle, and Oshtu hadn’t been able to figure what any of the edges meant. And, as if a songbird’s whistle were a brilliant spectrum, her utterances poured into his heart lighting it like a firecracker going off inside a tin can.

He stammered toward her not knowing it was, but merely her bark and leaves under the hushed canopy. She rocked steadily over him as Oshtu pulled his long blade from its sheath, and swung the saber forward in a fearless clip. The flesh of the tree exploded apart. Bathed in the embrace of Oshtu’s sword Phoenicia was exalted from her Hades. As he paused to watch the great tree fall, her flowers and cadavers were thrown to the ground in a mighty thud.

King Oshtu severed the last of the roots. Her figure had become so enmeshed with the growing of the tree, and camouflaged by dead bodies, that he hadn’t recognized it was his Phoenicia who he’d hacked into. She was hoping it would be him. Oshtu finally found her, but hadn’t realized. If she told him the truth, that her spirit was locked inside the tree, he may not have chopped her down. Had she not taken the lives of inamoratas what reason would he to destroy her?

King Oshtu flogged his way back to the stonewalled mountain bringing with him the splintery planks. He lit the mortal timber in an arrant blaze and lamented by the pyre for his beautiful Queen. Crackling, colored bursts induced a hypnotic state. Through the pulsing blood coursing through his beating heart, a stream of tears rippled in his glowing eyes. He reflected a paralyzed stare into the smoke climbing in steps through the clear blue sky. The scrolled words spiraled in wispy, sinuous threads... I love you. I am home.

He swayed back, the breath held captive in his lungs, eyes wide and hopeful. His cracked lips turned up at the corners pinching his face. Oshtu knew that his gracious Phoenicia had returned and would never leave him again. He hobbled, trance-like, toward the rising inferno, and could see her—a blue eye, a hand with a sapphire ring, melting and dripping in the orange flames. He reached in to grab her, and as his fingers squeezed her brilliant embers all he could pull away was the gold and silver metal, red hot, in his bloody palm.

mothers and daughters

oil paint on denim 18 x 24"

LIKE

You are the leaf of a flower.

I am the petal on the ground.

You sway like the hammock under the covered pine.

I am the soft moonlight caressing your twine.

You are a battle ship filled with brass and dials.

I am the ocean through which you move.

You are a Buddha filled with light and laughter.
I am a shaman dreamer beating my drum and shaking my rattles.

You are the lemon tree full of sweet yellow heaven.
I am the fingers that pull away your skin revealing your sparkling pulp.

You are the rain hammering a tin roof.
I am the smell of chocolate chip cookies baking.

You are like a blanket, soft and warm.

I am like a pillow, waiting.

You are a book filled with images and ideas.

I am the glue that binds your pages.

You are the tight rope.

I am the canyon below.

You are the sun on a snowy day.

I am the grass under the snow.

You are a sounding drum.
I am the emptiness that defines your vibrations.

You are the first sip of champagne.

I am the forbidden fruit.

You are the wind.
I am the tattered sail.

You are a lake.
I am the reflection of the trees and clouds.

You are the swine.
I am the pearls, and tears, in the mud.

You are the chessboard, black and white.
I am the coffee that just spilled all over the pieces.

You are a sacred law.
I am the word’s that chant for permission.

You are the ripe raspberries on the vine.

I am the thick branch where you rest.

You are the ravens fighting in the street.

I am the hawk’s watching.

You are the blur of a speeding train.

I am a foot caught in the tracks.

You are the barrel of gun.
I am the surgeon barking orders while sewing up flesh.

You are like a star on Hollywood and Vine.
I am like a greasy donut shop across the street.

You are the enemy.
I am the white flag, red and dripping from a crooked stick.

You are a fountain, clear and cool.
I am like children with dirty feet kicking, and throwing pennies.

You are an old—time movie on a rainy night.

I am the bed begging to be made love in.

You are the rippling tide filled with shells and sea glass.

I am a little boat looking for a harbor.

You are the multiple—choice question.

I am D, all of the above.

hidden city

oil on paper 9 x 12"

Darksider

You tried to hide her away

Just another day

Another day to pray

Let go of hope

It’s a rope that has no end

And you can’t win

When you don’t know what you have to lose

You’re runnin’ out of time

Night moves in

Begin again

With moonlight on the edge

Is there something behind

Those black eyes?

Dark sider

You can’t find her

You may hide yourself away

But you don’t have her now

She only has herself

She needs no help

But that of her own

For she has grown

Out of your reach

She found a home

Don’t you weep

For the love you think you lost

At a lonely bitter cost

The tears should be

For the love that knocked

On your door

That you turned down

That you ignored

And what for

What for

The love

You never knew

Has flew

So high

Darksider

You tried to hide her away

Just another day

to pray

sisters serene

oil on black paper 11 x 14"

I won’t always have this voice

I won’t always have these hands

I won’t always have these feet

to take me cross these lands

I won’t always have your heart

and your hand to hold

we grow silent

If we grow old

I won’t always have this time

to reflect on yesterday

I won’t always this dream

to hide and castaway

I won’t always have the wind

tussling in my hair

I won’t always

have you there

Because dreams

were meant for dying

as much as dreams

were meant for sleep

These dreams

they were worth trying

but now theses dreams

have buried me

I won’t always have a song

to play inside my head

I won’t always have the words

that I’d already said

because someday soon I’ll be

ashes tossed upon the ground

Where my voice and dreams

Can’t. Be. Found.

This life

drowns out the noise

that once filled up my ears

and filled up the void

This life has

dragged me down

and left you

all alone now

At that last faded face

the one that’s kept me here so long

The one that’s still left

singing this song

they still have their hands

they still have these words

they still have a song that

can be heard

they still have their heart

that’s broken in two

they don’t have me but they

Still. Have. You.

hands to hold

oil on paper 8 x 10"

LITTLE UKULELE

Like you little ukulele, I am only an instrument for dreaming, Singing, Dancing,
Happiness, and Love.

Like you little ukulele I am brown.

Like you, when I am touched by hands that are wise, It elicits my most sacred utterances.

Like you little ukulele, I have strings, and sometimes just the wind stirs the sweetest melody.
Like you, I have been a good friend.

Little ukulele, we are fragile. One step, and we are crushed.

Like you little uke, not everyone likes me,
But that doesn’t make us any less powerful or magical.

Like you little friend,
my history is in the music.

Like you, little ukulele, I come from a solid tree.
A skilled artist composed me
with deep love and color.

Like you, I twist and bend. But bent too far, I break.

Like you little ukulele, I am a prisoner
chained to the blackness to which all things are

explained,

defined,

dreamed,

wished,

hoped,

prayed,

given,

taken,

received,

found,

lost

and loved.

Like you, I am small and light and easy to carry.

Like you, I don’t need much.

Like you little ukulele, I don’t get offended easily.

Like you, the only hunger I have is for your smile, and to know that I put it there.

Like you little ukulele, inside is home,
But outside isn’t it so nice to smell the fire burning,
and hear people laughing and see the full moon rising?

Like you little ukulele, I have survived
the knives,
and glue,
and metal,
and strings
that kept me together.

But like you little ukulele,
I wouldn’t survive a minute in the flames.

Time

Time is stopping

And it’s moving

It’s an angry crowd

Heckling and booing

Time is a trap

And the breaking of a chain

Time is feelings

Time is shame

Time is soap

Time is dirt

Time is to hope

As much as to hurt

Time is cats

Screeching ferrily ever after

Time is barking dogs

And uncontrollable laughter

Time is service

Time is living

Time is ending

And beginning

Time is corrupt

Time is power

Time is a woven cloth

Waving at the top of a tower

Time is simple

Time is complete

Time is messy

And it’s neat

Time is a conduit

Of pleasure and pain

Time is comfort

Time is strain

Time takes time

Time left to live

Time is a story

Strained through a sieve

Time is a seed

Buried and hidden

Time is a tongue

Swollen and bitten

Time is the captor

And the release

Time is either

War and peace

Time is money

Fortune and fame

Time is lost

Again and again

Time is a wrinkled face

Seen through a smile

Time is an intruder

Unexpected and guile

Time is a sinner

Time is a saint

Time is a canvas

Waiting for paint

Time is a white flag

Pleading surrender

Time is a drunk

Out on a bender

Time has its secrets

Mysterious and wild

Time is a grandma

Time is a child

Time is kernels

Exploding in a pan

Time is a woman

Time is a man

Time is do or die

Time is why we cry

Time is doing dishes

While making wishes

Time is the eight ball

Behind a look of confusion

Time is people

Nature, illusion

Time is why we write

Time is why we fight

Time is candles

Fragrant and lit

Time is teeth, taste

And its spit

Time is a river

A lake, an ocean

It’s waxen ripples

In continuous motion

Time is a snowflake

Melting, uneven

Time is the Good Book

That some folks believe in

Time is the moon

A passing cloud

Time is rage

Bitter and loud

Time is cracking the whip

And shooting from the hip

Time is aroma

Sweet and fresh

Time is a rotting wound

Pasted into pasty flesh

Time is a trance

No end to the deep

Bringing us all

To eternal sleep

Time is eye’s truth

Delivering lies

Time is

Why everyone dies

Time is a dress

And a shoe

It’s a hat, a feather

A static view

Time is a flame

Green, blue and red

Time is scars

From arms that have bled

Time is distance

Time is location

Time is an enemy

A forbidden destination

Time is a blessing

Time is a curse

Time is the best

And it’s the worst

Time gently glides

Like a serpent that hisses

Time is expanding

With wet hot pink kisses

Time is an echo

In a lofty chamber

Time is safety

Time is danger

Time is always

Time is never

Time is stupid

And is clever

Time is satisfaction

A fraction of pi

Time is mountains

Above the sea tide

Time is the rye catcher

Enforcing billowy rapture

Time is a baby

Growing in a belly

Time is a sandwich

Peanut butter and jelly

Time is a detonator

A looking glass shattered

Time is pieces

Scattered

It’s a blast

That won’t last

Time is a voice

That desperately screams

Time is a nightmare

Time is lost in a dream

Time will set us free

Time is woe, woefully me

Time is crazy

Time is absurd

Time is numbers

Time is words

Time is the fish

All bubbles and sand

Time is a fist

Balled in a hand

Time is death

Time is birth

Time is a door

To suffering on earth

Time is a language

Of sticks and stones

Time is healing hearts

Time is broken bones

Time is a finger

A knee, a leg

Time is a street corner

From where people beg

Time is a fickle bitch

And sisters with a musical witch

Time is spiders and snakes

Time is bulged heads on stakes

Time is a cradle

Time is a coffin

It’s in between

And happens less often

Time is the present

The future, and past

Time is the cosmos

Furious and vast

Time is an arrow

Pulled taut on a bow

Time is an eagle

Caged in the snow

Time is running

Time stands still

Time is a weapon

Time is to kill

Time is slumber

Ready to wake

It’s a birthday

With cake

Time is an olive branch

Carried by a white dove

Time is hate

Time is love

Time is a bruised sky

Moaning and stained

Time is the ground

Mossy untamed

Time is a clock

Hung on a wall

We watch hours pass

Until the sun fall

Poetry in Pictures

Bloomin shroomin

woman who holds white feather

falling leaves

the birthing tree

just being

Prismatic city scape

i long to sail the path to the moon

Inner city

queen tree

cloudy SKy

mothers and daughters

hidden city

sisters serene

horizon hues

hands to hold

Time

jumping mountains

Dirty Feet

click on image to link to inspiration for this piece

birthday bones