Most of the paintings displayed here have been sold; prints can be arranged, though, for a reasonable price. Some originals are still available, and I do accept commissions. These days, I also accept chickens, butter and clothing (and other goods and services) in lieu of typical currency. :)
I will post paintings as they are finished and as space allows; please SCROLL DOWN or see the archives to view all of them.
If you are interested in a purchase, please contact me directly at: email@example.com.
Wednesday, January 11, 2012
Monday, March 8, 2010
He asked, “Do you get seasick?”
I paused at the span of years since I last
Seated on the bow, flying, ocean kisses all over my face…
Harbor in the afternoon where I massacred an oyster
in curious horror. She gifted me upon her death
a perfect eight-millimeter miniature
of a dusky moon on a nighttime sea.
“Why do you ask?” was all I said.
Casually lounging the waves with an otter and
“Well, I love the ocean, “ He replied, “and I don’t think I ever asked…”
“I felt sick, once when my brother was, on the boat,
Knots of kelp, seatree caress, ropes of gold in briny bondage…
(If you were landlocked, said my brother once, I think you’d die!)
“Soon,” my Love promised, “we’ll go sailing.”
And instead of drowning, found myself filled with
warm, orange honey…
and it filled up every cell of the body, breathing itself just fine…
no room for fear, because all of the within or without spaces were suddenly
warm, orange honey.
What if open eyes saw that everything, everything is,
No longing for sweetness when the tongue becomes what it craves.
What would I do, what would I do in an endless universe of warm, orange
walking without my glasses, needing no detail
to bring me wood smoke and perfume
from someone’s clothes dryer.
Could be any neighborhood, quiet, after dinner.
Walking in the street because traffic is
elsewhere, slowly, because I can.
The bottoms of my shoes are thin. I feel
intimate density, each step,
thinking, This is how I love,
this is how I love!
It is only what you deserve.
Pretend you are god, and you know so much
that it’s more fun not to know.
Don’t be surprised, when you step ahead,
that the earth obediently turns under your feet;
or that every time you open your eyes,
you grace this space with color, line and form.
Your power is such that a word or a tear
can break my heart.
And when you open yours,
the entire universe
rushes in to at last be home
where it belongs.
green all year, where I could not imagine drought
except as an abstract concept.
the dream has granted me a grove
where ocean meets the rain;
persistent, subtle mists, and sprays and spates
in sideways walls of wet.
I wrap myself in plastic, to no avail,
After a while, my face runs with rainy sea, sweat or tears.
Today, at the end of my labored swim up the hill,
first understand that you are
a whirlpool of a raging river,
a cyclone of an endless sky,
a spiral of the code of being.
Lie flat on the ground, the solid, still earth
So let go.
Friday, March 5, 2010
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
of learned skill—
Basic knowledge of past achievements
But the scent of your vision
Sunday, February 21, 2010
"Grandma's Cabin", oil on canvas, sold
there was a noisy place in the floor
I tried hard to avoid, so as not to wake the
Forgetting, one day, I stepped just there.
But a curiosity in the sound
Until a secret joy in the gaze upon me
And I bounced a few times,
Friday, February 5, 2010
Did you believe the chasm
Did you think it would reward the courage
I know you can’t see it, I know it
Thursday, January 28, 2010
I was telling my brother
about stumbling upon heart shapes wherever I go
(the shape of your face in my hands),
and that my son once pointed out
how frequently this happens
(the shape of your hand on the small of my back),
since I had quite a collection
(the shape of your name on my tongue)
of found heart-shaped things.
Really, my brother said.
(the shape of the space around your form)
You know, it’s all in the patterns
(the shape of things to come)
that you recognize.
And I stopped to pick up a golden,
heart-shaped piece of agate, laughing.
(the shape of love)
Saturday, January 23, 2010
"Dragonglow", oil on canvas, sold
wild wasteland of fallen angels and fractured wings,
I step over my own spilled blood and hear the
snap of fearful division,
smelling heat of hate on the wind.
Nothing seems to grow amid fortresses
So easy to succumb to the swelling
But compulsive lies collapse
There are signs of what moves underneath,
Thirsty, heedless of bites and stings,
Listeners, feelers in the desert know
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
If someone told me five years back
that I’d never left—but no, I needed
I had to play one more kind of fool
and step off another cliff, with a different-colored rose
in my teeth.
Even upon impact, in the midst of the latest shattered role,
Love was the only thing that ever made sense.
I’d find myself somehow
walking the path to the top of the next ridge,
tasting a thorny stem. Again.
Last time, the fall was so long as I looked from the edge,
Grace had other ideas.
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
the worst of the scars, while
forgetting, more and more, what they look like.
The world doesn’t care, and toughly, tenderly
breathes me, in each moment,
bringing stories and pictures, green grass
and the smell of wet cedar.
Even when I imagined my abandonment or my prison,
the world arose with me each morning and
lay down to rest or restlessness
with me each night.
It became the door I locked
or the key in my hand,
it loves me that much.
When I wanted something to break
Form after form, thought after thought, age after age
"Canyon Goddess", oil on canvas, sold
In my dream, the water has finally come.
I've descended through ashes, through the portal of my own footprint
into the underworld.
Risen from your breath and bled from your eyes,
I am the libation that cannot be grasped, but of which
In my dream, the sun enters the day
I wade the late turquoise of afternoon
"Mussels and Cherries", oil on canvas, sold