This poem, by a Pittsburgh poet who lost his wife to the corona virus, really struck me hard. It is both personal and universal. The poem is by Bart Solarczyk and is published in his poetry book: Tilted World.
on a sofa
in a big
we will never
be the sky.
I love Brian Andreas’ writing and artwork. It is so very whimsical, poetic and profound at the same time. He combines the most fantastical imagery with the mundane in such a manner that it catches you off guard and can leave one (me) breathless or at the very least—with a smile. For the child within—Brian’s work is nourishing, supportive, humorous and contemplative all the while most playfully innocent. Wisdom in this case, cloaked in innocence. And his artwork is as whimsical, colorful and sensitive as his words.
Some sweet nuggets on his 2020 Brian Andreas Studio Calendar:
“bringing magic back into everyday life,
even though to most people,
it just looks like soup.”
~Brian Andreas 2019
In his calendar, Brian Andreas gets to create/name his own special days:
March 22: giant Sunday hat day;
March 29: cross a line day;
April 27: mismatched sock day;
June 8: thankful for oceans day;
September 15: walk backwards day (one of my favorites).
His September page:
“Once you see the heroes around you, the ones who stand quietly & love the world with everything they are,
don’t be surprised if one day you choose to stand up & show what happens when you live that kind of life too.”
~Brian Andreas, 2019
Do you ever wonder where Rainbows go after they leave the job? Somewhere between stormy and blue skies I suppose. How do they unwind?
Where Rainbows Go To Dance
Acrylic on canvas. 12″ x !2 ” AG 2020
Four Hensters On The Fence: Flo, Rosie, Lilly and Leslie/Les (right to left).
The back story:
In a charming backyard in Morris Plains, just off Main Street, four hens climb one-by-one up onto a wooden picket fence at twilight every day. They hang out as chickens do, clucking about the day’s egg-laying while surveying the comings and goings of their neighbors, the Martins, until their keeper puts on her heavy gloves and takes them down into their coop for the evening—(all true so far).
Flo is nosy and a bit of a gossip yet gets flustered rather easily. Rosie thinks that she is right most of the time and is a bit pushy. Lilly is the youngest—sweet and on the shy side, while Leslie/Les is the hip one, and prefers that she/they be considered gender neutral. Thus, according to Leslie/Les (much to the chagrin of Flo and Rosie), she/they are referred to as Hensters, (hens + roosters). Their favorite series on cable TV is Sex And the City, and with a little prodding, will admit to relating to Carrie, Samantha, Charlotte and Miranda—only with more colorful plumage and much much younger. They are all known to bicker (except for Lilly) over who is most like Carrie Bradshaw, simply because she is the star, and they all long to peck at a typewriter. The Hensters’ story is still evolving–stay tuned.
Some fun facts about chickens: they have great eyesight; teach each other; talk to their chicks before they hatch; are speedy and love to play. They are great characters and used for therapy in some nursing homes.
Regarding the painting: mixed media on board approximately 16” x 20”
I ~ Stella
The storm becomes her name.
Or should it be Blanche?
Charm is 50% illusion.
I don’t want realism. I want magic!
Haven’t you ever ridden on that streetcar?
that bangs through the Quarter
Why, they told me to take a streetcar named Desire.
II ~ Nuances At Midnight
Yesterday a Spring walk.
Waking to a chiseled morning rides a wild mustang.
A dame that knows she’s good looking.
What kind of a queen do you think you are?
The real cork.
Marie Antoinette meets Blanche DuBois.
They eat cake. Where’s Stella?
She’s out there on the porch.
almost forsythia a little rain a little snow
imagine simmering pots of fragrant words
cabbage and beans
a garden celebration
of rustic stars
letting go letting g letting lettin lett let
So I decided to bake a potato last night – a very infrequent occurrence. When I cut it lengthwise, this brown area stood out – not rot but underdeveloped potato. That was ok, until I leaned in as I was about to smear on the butter and saw the two faces and perfect lips. Thought I was imagining this and once again, while I was doing three other things – I had to run and get my camera. As if that weren’t enough, I also had to compose the photo — hence the fork.
I see faces in all of nature, on tree bark, on stones, in clouds but never before in a potato or an apple or peach – this is a first! And then I realized that today is Valentines Day. I got lucky and pulled a sweetheart potato. (I know I know — as my cousin would suggest — I need “to get a life”). Anyway, the two sides of the potato are lovers for now and after dinner — tomorrow’s leftovers.
not even a full moon and yet its pull on my heart
lovers and leftovers — how not to worry about what to write
flowers in the
teeniest of vases
catch our breath and
give the cheeriest hello
in a split second of delight
on a day that would otherwise
pass as a drama too complex
and sophisticated for the
delicate loveliness of
wood sprites unless
we unleash our
true selves to
Just one of those nights – nothing to write about and yet so much going on. I start and stop – move trial posts to the trash. My muse took off ahead of the storm. She left me alone with a note: “you have have plenty of food and busywork to amuse yourself. I’m off to rustle up some new ideas.” I believe she fancies herself a cross between an urban cowgirl and a geisha. She wears a paisley sarong with red cowgirl boots and a haiku saddlebag. Even though she skips out from time to time – it’s funny how well we get along.
Sigh. Some nights I wish that I could be satisfied with just a piece of chocolate.