This page expresses my unceasing devotion to beauty, creativity and the deep language of "soul". I am an artist by profession; however, I love art so much that I would draw, paint and write even if I was the last human left on the planet.

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: aka.rhiannon@gmail.com.


Thursday, January 28, 2010


Walking the beach in a treasure day,
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)
Imagine that!


Saturday, January 23, 2010

"Dragonglow", oil on canvas, sold


In this necessary nightmare,
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
of illness, under layers of mental cancer
and piles of our neglect.
Nothing seems to flow through
these huge dams of greed.

So easy to succumb to the swelling
of despair…

But compulsive lies collapse
gratefully, as do all things, into truth;
through the ruins I see layers of time
in canyon walls, the pattern of pulse
through all the apparent
heart failure.

There are signs of what moves underneath,
ancient evidence immune
to doubt.

Thirsty, heedless of bites and stings,
I lie on the parched bed of original flow
and put my ear and my naked belly
to this earth.

Listeners, feelers in the desert know
the ebb and flow of silent
subterranean current, washing clean
the wounds, mending the breaks and cooling
the fever of fear.
Even here,
I heal
in the place where sea meets sky;
even here I am
at home.


Wednesday, January 13, 2010


How many deaths does it take to get to heaven?
If someone told me five years back
that I’d never left—but no, I needed
more dying.
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,
I just knew it went straight to hell.
I wanted to sit forever with the view in sharp relief
and a dead flower for companionship.

Grace had other ideas.
I swear I was pushed.
The fall was so long
that I had time to do somersaults and twists
and a complete review of many lives.
I had time to catch myself
in surrender,
even before my sudden landing
in your arms,
my rose safe in your teeth
beneath your laughing eyes.

Tuesday, January 12, 2010

"Comfort", oil on canvas, private collection

The Path of Devotion

Maybe midlife, and I’m still trying to hide
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
other than glass, life brought me,
a whole procession of breakable things
and promises and events.
Did I need layers to tear off in grief? It
cried large, ripping sobs,
rocked back and forth with me in isolation
on the saltwater sea in my eyes.
Had I honestly wanted to drown,
it would have shaped itself
around me that way, rushed into my lungs
and every pore, until I was
perfectly saturated.
It loves me that much.

Form after form, thought after thought, age after age
is this devotion.
I must have felt it, somewhere,
I must have known it was wiser than I.
There has always been some tiny shrine
for me to go, to see if this
is true…
it loves me so much.

"Canyon Goddess", oil on canvas, sold


I am the Ocean's daughter.
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 have carved new lines on the beautiful, ancient face always cast up
at the sky.
I am the lover-destroyer leaning upon
the greatest walls of stone and steel,
patiently filling every flaw, caressing away the hardest shell from the tender,
molten heart of this blessed Earth, whom
I carry to build upon her womb and fruit the hills and plains.
No bridge can span the width,
no dam can halt the flow
of this current.

I am the libation that cannot be grasped, but of which
you are ever born;
I will relax in your cupped hands,
conform to the shape of your mouth,
bathe away fear and float the innocent
within and upon me.
I sing to you in the rain and rivers,
rock through the waves as your
primal lullaby...the touches may be small
as mist or engulfing as a tide; give and take
by give and take, they change the shape
of this universe.

In my dream, the sun enters the day
through the West.
Water has split the great land
in two; there are new
shallow seas webbed by streams
and canals carrying boats filled with fruit
and rugs, herbs and animals of perennial wisdom.

I wade the late turquoise of afternoon
where the shoreline heals the wounds and the voices are few
and full.
Aquarius carries me on his strong back
tipping the vessel from then to now.
Empty your cup; pour it out
as an offering.

"Mussels and Cherries", oil on canvas, sold

Sunday, January 10, 2010

"Creation", oil on canvas, sold

"Orangina", oil on canvas, sold

"Emerald Afternoon", oil on canvas, sold

"Flight", oil on canvas, sold

"Grass Lady", oil on canvas, sold

"Elemental Woman", oil on canvas, private collection