Hi, I just wanted to add a video and some of the new promotional things I made using my hand crafted items, as larger signage was needed. I hope you’re all well!
Satan has no place in art’s
man made persona
on gracious passage of souls
golden heron fly
I’ve been away concentrating on my fundraising and have also put together a new video of crafts for this quarter. Since I was knee deep in files, I wanted to add certain things to my art/sketches category like these Zentangle projects. I have been practising for a year. This form helps with meditation and concentration, and has been a boon in all of that to help me focus and think only of the moment. There are no good or bad tangles, I have since learned. And, it is what it is. So, slowly, I am trying to apply that with regard to life, and *stuff*.
Black ink and pencil shading Zentangle box frame commissioned for Mother’s Day.
Instead of tangling on pads of paper, I wanted to find other mediums to use: e.g wooden plaques, varnished, bottles etc – making more of a lasting keepsake.
One of the donations I received was a box full of lovely smooth wood, (I made into bookmarks) unlike the plaque, which ripped my pen nibs to shreds, these were a treat to work. So calming. I even ventured into colour on some, which for me is rare.
Excuse my photography. It was very late, I was very tired and didn’t even spot the blurriness due to my own.
I’m starting another year fundraising for CRUK, and painting my socks off again for my first event on 23rd February. Sorry I haven’t been able to get around to your blogs and good works yet. I hope you all have a lovely Valentine’s day, loving one another, and many others. Be kind and careful. Here are some of my hearts for you from last year’s painting spree. Take care.
Dedicating this old chestnut on Valentine’s day to my lovely husband, Jay. Love you.
Walk me to the end
of love – let us be love.
Fold me where the
seams are stitched,
edges brought closer
till there is no end.
Play me till the piano
aches, when drifting sighs
start dancing, and crooning
violins stop playing.
Lift me like a hope
seeking light from dust,
hold me with your beauty
like a soul on fire –
let me be the risk you take,
dance me to the edge
then wait with me until the end
of love, let us be love.
I speak rightly –
set not my words to music,
nor douse them in tune to vast breaths
I am among you as mortal,
still. But, please, breathe freely –
at least for a time,
then let me be to eager rests’
devoted arms –
of course your strewn petals,
benign at my feet,
speak calmly of foe and friend –
draw me close to your wondrous
adoration; so separate me not from music’s glow
when such fragments tear you
into fractious, scattered pieces –
and so it is perhaps that great art’s worship
be confined to symbolic gesture.
I am not lost, and I am not gone
whilst echoes play
with such innocence
and voices call me. I am translucent.
Gleaned from me is the skin you were denied.
I am always yours. I am diaphanous.
Cotinus Young Lady-SmokeBush-writingasitcomes
Been gardening again… love this plant.
Strokes of moonlight smother
whispers of the smoke bush
wavering against twilight’s
while pondering the water,
pondering depth and death.
Subdued, hushed panicles warp,
inside black steel ripples
made by water splashed sedge warblers
flung across the sheen of bleak, black,
where streaks of my childhood run
wildly ‘til they bleed into the perfect wash –
disrupted only briefly by daubs of
my more morbid notions –
a thousand indigo butterflies
dotted like inky death
become pinned to the eerie flatness of water
and of life –
finally, my drowning memories
are absorbed by stagnant fluid –
the whispers are hushed in the black, dead air
where mosquitoes live instead,
and for the first time, I begin to thrive.
Poem was inspired by a fabulous artist and a poem choice for his art. I’ve just recently began following. Please go and see the work of Anthony Grootelaar. The picture is unrelated.
I begged him to love me,
but not for nought
as music played in the draught
of what I sought.
I scoffed his imperfections
liaised with wit
when laughter ran unescorted
on a matter of mutual concern,
and yet, through his brutal demeanour,
befitting the night.
Perchance I could love better –
but only after death.
Inspiration from Anne Deneau at The Darkest Art. Superb dock for ‘art of the dark and morbid variety’.
A visit by wicked angels
with ashen arms spread
in righteous but indigent pose
left me gorged, deflated.
I told them, ‘Speak to me only if repentant,
do not tower over castles long forgotten
or drive hoards to fantasy in dire times.
Do not tempt, shame or brainwash
with false gods and saviours.
Go, messengers – singer of slow songs
and harbingers of death
and let me sleep.