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.


Monday, March 8, 2010

Must be in the Blood

From a barren place, no desert ship in sight,
He asked, “Do you get seasick?”
I paused at the span of years since I last
went sailing.
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
his abalone breakfast…
Facing early extinction in a watery vacuum pulling me out,
out of the cove, until with a bloody grip on a barnacled rock,
I crawled up to air in gratitude.

“Well, I love the ocean, “ He replied, “and I don’t think I ever asked…”

Coral-replicating rivulets
in copper evening sand, spread like big hands
holding the fiery ball of sun…
Driftwood being human art, with shells and seagull feathers dancing,
Or blessing smoke, like incense over small beach gatherings…
Holy stones and smooth glass jewels,
whalebones and fossils so
familiar, I can’t help but remember
the web of tiny fetal fingers floating
in that first cradle.

“I felt sick, once when my brother was, on the boat,
but that was all,” I concluded.

Knots of kelp, seatree caress, ropes of gold in briny bondage…
Expressionless sharks bearing the unknown in perfect teeth
with perfect truth in their eyes…
Crying to my Mother when I was lost, longing to drown again
in her arms…wanting her there
at my one true wedding
when I finally found my way home.

(If you were landlocked, said my brother once, I think you’d die!)

“Soon,” my Love promised, “we’ll go sailing.”
I could feel him smile.
I may be a mermaid with legs.


What if I stopped fighting and fell into the vat of
What Is?
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,
in fact, warm orange honey?

No longing for sweetness when the tongue becomes what it craves.
No avoiding the hollows when that is where warmth lives.
No future of need when it has already become what yesterday is---
warm, orange honey.

What would I do, what would I do in an endless universe of warm, orange
I couldn’t run from it
hide from it
have more of it
or control it
since it is me and I am it and so is everything else…
an absolute abundance of warm, orange honey,
in an infinite number of shapes, sizes and densities, all of them
warm, orange honey.


Nothing special this mild, March evening, light fading,
walking, digesting;
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!

To us

Get used to being adored.
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.

Birthing Pool

Back in the desert, I used to dream of a place
green all year, where I could not imagine drought
except as an abstract concept.
Awake now,
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,
for a determined hike on muffled trails, skirting
tiny bogs in open spaces, earth seeping back
what moss and ferns have given.
Every dissolving leaf or twig, every springing
fungus exhales an ancient, ancient perfume
of sharp, quick decay mixed with new, spring babyhood.

After a while, my face runs with rainy sea, sweat or tears.
I hear only my own heartbeat in this womb.

Today, at the end of my labored swim up the hill,
stripped of everything but love,
light spears the end of the fir tunnel
and opens the ocean cloud canopy
with diamonds.

Motion Sickness

To overcome the dizziness of the world,
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
while you contemplate the fact that you’re spinning
rapidly in space
in a galaxy that swirls your helpless self
into who-knows-what,
in a universe expanding who-knows-where.
Not only that!
From tick to tock,
the swing of the pendulum you make time with
can make you very ill, indeed.

So let go.
You’ll only float in the center
while you fly around
your edge.

Friday, March 5, 2010

"Moonlight Fairy", oil on canvas, private collection

"Arctic Beauty", oil on canvas, private collection

"North Altar", oil on canvas

Wednesday, March 3, 2010

"The Artist and Her Father", oil on canvas, private collection

Education of an Artist

Technique and application
of learned skill—
very important.

Basic knowledge of past achievements
by illuminated dead,
balanced with the desire to create
something living on—
why not?

But the scent of your vision
the taste of the hawk’s cry on canvas
the feel of a universe pressing out, out from
your heart
goes without saying!