Stories in my head #poetry

golden fountain

spillway of imagination

words turbulent and frenzied

the hero anxious in the wings

 villain threatens with aplomb

a hushed sense of what’s next

blood and tears fall

innocence fleas the shadowed way

a woman saves the day

the sun rises all is well

time  is small in my hand

I brandish my weapon

 pen cuts through the marrow

***

Hours with sand and paint

dust particles tease the light

my mind writes

The prompt this week at Poet’s United is Conquest (or Conqueror). The writer holds so much in her hand – the pen a mighty weapon.

 

Childhood Memories #atozchallenge

paint palette

color in the memories

painful black and white

 reality is so cold

mix the paint

makes it right

swirl acrylic

round and round

covers the hurt

helps lost to be found

color in the memories

no more black and white

cover the memories

it’ll be alright

***

I’ve worked with enough children who were abused, thrown away, tormented to candy coat pain. Children have an amazing resilience to pain perhaps it’s the imagination that can erase awful memories. Just think how wonderful those imaginations are without pain.

M

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Monet and Poplars #haiku #art

 

Gathering my thoughts

my paints loathe to follow

poplar dreams

*

sky color palette

cloud influenced impression

Monet found

*

canvas dry

I miss my poplar print

no more tears

 

Monet influenced so many writers and artists and continues to do so. The Carpe Diem prompt is “Poplars”

Study of the artist #art #painting #poetry

 

The artist’s eye

capturing color

creating a smile

*

what does he display

palette and paint

life to portray

**

a story he is writing

with strokes of  a brush

others he’s inviting

 

artist at work

I have been around artists all of my life. They are an unusual breed. Some like to be in the public as they study and paint while others like to be alone as creation (to them) is a solitary business. The artist of old could not rely on a photograph to capture a scene so many artists would paint on-site or have an incredible photographic memory.

Today’s poem is a preface to a month where I will feature art and the artist on Friday Feature.

Living Art #photography #poetry

Entering the portico

I am greeted with buzzing bees

a chorus written on my behalf

sung by the local cheep choir

once tended, the garden is alive with color

the old oak door opens to a living gallery

each painting familiar

smiling eyes look at me

flowers beckon for my approval

the easel creaks a “welcome home”

paints squeezed out on the palette

dance with joy at my perusal

burgundy, ochre, midnight blue cartwheel

It is a lively place this world of art

I know each piece by name

they know my voice, my laugh, my sigh

we understand each other

when I am gone 

this is where I long to be

 

leslie from painting

 

The delightful writing prompt at the DP Daily challenge is Living Art. (One day, your favorite piece of art — a famous painting or sculpture, the graffiti next door — comes to life. What happens next?)

The world of art has been my companion since birth. It is always warm and alive and as part of me as I am it. (The painting of the girl is a much younger me!)

 

 

Photography: Original Oil Paintings by Clare

 

 

Life’s Canvas #art #poetry #photography

lane to the stable

Her art took on a new beauty

rust etched the background

creating a sepia contrast

red, ochre, black ground and mixed

 embedded under her nails

each brush an ally

each painting a well-known friend

 pochade box hinges creaked

suffering its own form of arthritis

and she the master of life’s canvas still

Laurie Kolp’s prompt at Poetry Jam this week was “Rust.” Having just been at my childhood home aka art studio, I felt compelled to write in rust colored ink.

Photograph: “The Lane to the Stable” L. Moon 2013

The oil painting “Stanford Lane”  circa 1980 is the copyright image of Clare

also in my archives some photographs of Rusting Images.

They Call her Peace #poetry #photography

In my hand I held her … Peace

octrose
A rose called Peace

In my hand I held her

a fragrance that grows faint

she dipped into the sunshine

we insulted her with paint

*

In my hand I held her

not wanting to let her go

breezy calm like spring time

I wish they’d let her grow

*

In my hand I held her

though she damaged by the storm

the reds of hate assailed her

hopes and dreams were dashed and torn

*

In my hand I held her

she seems so out of reach

man  bent on world dominion

her name – they call her Peace

Kim’s prompt for Poet’s United / Verse First is Close to the Source. When I saw the little blossom on my rose bush (this am), I felt the need to write this for her. The bugs and deer rarely leave a bloom. The symbolism is strong for this little rose.

poets united

Final Stroke #atoz #art #shortstory

you – the writer, poet, photographer, painter, sculptor creators who impact the world with words, shape, color, a vision. What would you want to be remembered for when you are gone?

The final brush stroke…

she held her breath knowing what had seemed like a lifetime of creating  would be culminated at this final pass of color. For a moment she heard a child laughing with glee as she pranced around the studio with her first paint brush from her grand pere. “I was so full of life, exuberance, potential then. I knew I would be a talented artist with many commissioning my work. I was too much the dreamer.”

A brush fell…

“What if this final mark on my years as an artist is a flop?” She turned as if speaking to stacks of blank and partly finished canvasses.

“You must” she spoke assuring the canvas that they must move forward.

What the art enthusiasts did  not know is that she felt each painting would be her last. The beginning stages of applying gesso and sketching out her subject was like birth for her soul; the final touches But it was not the brush she had been using. Taking a lasting stroke with what she believed was a subtle cream ;she left a mark on her painting that would be talked about by historians and students for generations.

“The stroke of red made this a masterpiece”

“She knew the stroke of red would be like a crescendo in the art world.”

“It symbolized her heart failing her.”

“It was a dagger…”

They found her in a pool of red. In her glorious world of finished and unfinished creations.

Her final work had indeed been the most influential piece of her career.

***

Some day I will finish my life work which is a biographical fiction about my mother’s life. An artist who has made everything she touches a masterpiece. In her youth, she painted and made history.

This piece ” Final Stroke” is my creation for the letter “S ” in the month long A to Z writing challenge,

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