Some days the words refuse to let me go.
On other days words pretend I am someone they do not know.
The cut-direct should not hurt so.
Tag Archives: art
GREY SKIES
Grey days may appear
to cloud freedoms, far and near.
Don’t give in to fear.
Think as Spring draws near
of all that you hold most dear.
Peace and beauty shall appear.
ABUNDANT CHANGE
Hope is in the soil beneath our feet
Ready to grow seeds in the lengthening days
Until beautiful souls flower and fill our needs.
WHERE HAVE THE BUTTERFLIES GONE?
Hydrangeas move as if on a breeze.
A breeze of bees moving flower to flower
across lime green, blue and pink.
Across ruby red and native plants
their flowers do a pretty dance.
On this hot, dry day I watch bees play.
But, where have the butterflies gone?
They did not appear this year.
The yard is awash in colorful blooms
In past years butterflies found plenty of room
to feast and sleep a moment or two.
Butterfly bushes and butterfly weeds,
native plants and other species
await their return in sad revery.
I ask everyone I know,
“have you seen a butterfly this year?”
The answer is always a baffled, “No.”
Where did all the butterflies go?
And, will they ever return ?
Who knows? Like lovers spurned,
they may have found another garden
to replace my own.
I can only hope so, as I mourn
a topsy-survey world grown too warm.
Filed under POETRY
POETS
Beyond the words is a place
every writer longs to be.
There, where unvarnished truth
resides alongside unlimited expression.
Poets would take you on the journey
beyond the words.
The path is not straight.
The path cannot be seen.
The path can only be felt.
The path takes one beyond
the land of dreams
and thoughts unscreened
to the place nothing seems.
In nothingness all lives.
Every possibility sounds out
silently.
The song cannot be heard.
The song can only be felt.
Until nothing erupts quietly
and words return
surprising me.
Art flows not from the poet.
Art flows through the poet
from that place
beyond the words
where all art resides.
The journey is within.
THE SPACES BETWEEN
Words on the page matter not at all.
It is the space between the words
where mystery dwells.
I fist my hand around the pen,
my defending weapon of choice,
while I struggle with stories to tell.
I do not explore the words;
but, the spaces between and aside
while I open my self wide.
We may read the words together,
and search the space between words
hand in hand, eye to eye, heart to heart.
No hate can break the bond of words,
shared in the spaces between, apart.
And, then, we can know all there is to know
as we join our empty spaces
deep and dark, side by side.
Reach for the stars if you will.
I prefer to explore one another
between the the words of languages
unknown, unable to be spoken.
None of what is written matters at all.
It is the space between words
where love rises and falls.
Hate cannot find its way in the dark.
But, love can.
Love carries its own light within
the spaces between the words.
Love glows in the dark.
Filed under POETRY
PASSION
Where does passion go?
Why does it flee before it is spent?
Has it no sense of time, nor pace?
What does one do with a heart rent
by passion’s too swift flow?
How empty is a life bereft of passion.
How lonely is a passionless soul.
Time stands still and lingers in empty space
covered in ash from burned-out coal.
The need to re-light passion is out of fashion.
Where does passion go?
I, certainly, do not know.
Filed under POETRY
A POET’S VIEW
Paper of every color and hue
unrolls from thousands of inner tubes
that I might write upon a page;
so bright, it dims the sight
and opens the mind to such delight
in cerulean, amaranth, celadon,
garnet, crimson, vermillion
violet, tangerine, ecru and Eton-blue;
colors I can taste and feel
as they unroll reel by reel
so real they dance and sing and swell
until the pen dips in the well.
I wrap each page around each cell
and feel the energy seep through
blood and bone and sinew
into every soft tissue
that pulses with breath
and laughter and tears,
and beats with heart-felt truth
so hard and fast it hardly knows
what words spill out upon the page,
which black marks ink signs
to tell me the way
while you can see and understand
before I can even comprehend
that a poem has unfurled from tubes
not of cardboard but of gold.
Writing is the treasure of stories untold
and waiting to be wrapped
then given as gifts as colors unfold.
The Portrait,By Louise Annarino,4-7-2013
The Portrait, By Louise Annarino,April 7,2013
Walking through the festival my eye was drawn toward remarkably vivid paintings of several persons whom I had seen while walking though the crowd. Each was gently holding an item in his or her hands,as if offering it to the onlookers,a gentle smile lighting each painted face. Each painting was different; each deeply stirring.
It was then a man approached to explain his wife was the artist as he pointed her out to me. She was busily painting the image of the man standing before her as he told the story behind his selection of the item and its importance in his life. I felt drawn to his story as his smile widen with each sentence, settling into the gentle smile I had noticed in the other paintings. The artist had a unique ability to capture the light within her subjects as they revealed themselves to her.
The artist hung the painting to dry alongside the others,and shook hands with her subject as he turned to re-enter the throng of festival-goers. Suddenly, she turned to me. “Let’s do your portrait. I shall come to your house tomorrow to paint you. Pick out an item you believe best allows me to paint the story of your life,”she said. She added that I could have more than one item. I agreed to be ready when she arrived the next day, inviting her and her husband to stay for dinner.
The next hours were spent looking around my apartment,rifling drawers and closets to discover the one item which would tell my story,define the purpose of my life,and leave a lasting impression after I was dead and gone. It was a difficult search.
I saw my high school diploma,my bachelor and master degrees and my law degree hanging on the wall; the corded tassels from each graduation cap hanging over door knobs.It occurred to me that these were portals to a life well-lived;but, not the life itself. The same could be said for the photos of my family and all of those whom I love, the last menu from my family’s restaurant and its photo which hang above my kitchen sink, the crucifix hanging in my living room above the statue of St. Francis of Assisi which I made so many years ago before faith had been so battered,the awards for racial awareness programs I had started, and political activism photos.
As I searched I discovered dozens of items I could have used. None was sufficient; some more photogenic and “paintable” than others. Interestingly, I came across items left by others in my care for storage and safekeeping. These surprised me most of all. I had no idea the limited space in my closets had been given over to the lives of so many others. Certainly, they could not be used in the painting.They did not tell my story.
By the time the dream ended, I had found nothing to hold in my hands, or too much. Clearly, I was not ready for the artist to begin painting. Thank goodness I awoke then. I do not know what I would have done should the artist have come to paint my final portrait. I am still searching for something to hold in my hands,something which will show the viewer what my life meant, who I was, what I had to offer. I am curious. What would you hold in your hands should the painter arrive to paint your portrait ?
Filed under Uncategorized
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