Maria's Arts
PAINTINGS, POETRY AND OTHER LOVES
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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.
Enjoy!
Thursday, March 21, 2013
Wednesday, January 11, 2012
Monday, August 22, 2011
Monday, March 8, 2010
He asked, “Do you get seasick?” I paused at the span of years since I last went sailing. “Um…” 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…” Coral-replicating rivulets “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.”
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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, 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
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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!
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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.
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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, After a while, my face runs with rainy sea, sweat or tears. Today, at the end of my labored swim up the hill,
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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.
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Friday, March 5, 2010
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
of learned skill— very important. Basic knowledge of past achievements But the scent of your vision
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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 sleeping people. 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
between your-and-Self. Did you believe the chasm Did you think it would reward the courage I know you can’t see it, I know it
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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) Imagine that!
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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
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Wednesday, January 13, 2010
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 resurrected, 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.
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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. Obligingly, 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
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"Canyon Goddess", oil on canvas, sold
Aquarius
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
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"Mussels and Cherries", oil on canvas, sold