Vivid brush strokes of exuberant friends

chatting on balcony of life’s existence

rich wines loosening their souls

fresh and free and slightly bawdy.

Soft filtering light illuminating faces

visual angle of movement of figures.

Juxtaposition of hues, not lines -

Couldn’t draw, instinctively painted

Passionate tints captured

rich forms, fluid brush strokes

soft light in changing moods.

I lose myself in the painting

airbrushed as part of the whole

hidden in my favorite painting

lunching with my new found friends.

Hope in an honorable man, that he'll turn the ship around.

Wait and see.

Reach.

A foot slides and your ankle is scraped against the cliff side.

Does it matter?

Blood soaks into earth, earth into veins,

Everything you are

Damaged goods from betrayal. Used and tired.

Darling, you are everything; they cannot make you less.

I'm eternally drunk, but now it's on you.

Not wine but you.

Is this sobriety? Or the most perfect intoxication?

Everything blurs, but my path to you is clear.

Turn around, Ariadne,

and know that I have waited my entire life to love you. 

We owned two beautiful Arabian mares at one time. Both abused and tough on the outside.

Many a day just grooming and giving carrots,

and loving them.

A horse is a very Soulful, spiritual being.

They are healers of the soul,

they put life back into your body,

they are the very breath of God

and that's why they are so perfect.

I took this photo and had it framed of my two mares. I'm so glad I did. It's my favorite art piece.

They were wonderful, sweet and kind horses. Just look how they love each other.

We rode by catching The Thinker in France,

one small window of time, recklessly close.

The Vatican has many small windows

when in Rome, we’d stood by, long in advance.

With thousands, we'd waited to get a glance

of Pope Francis giving blessed repose.

We rode by catching The Thinker in France,

one small window of time, recklessly close.

Rodin’s famed sculpture exposed quite by chance,

from the bus, our eyes fixed on his well-known pose.

In Rome, so far-away, the pope? who knows?

But in Paris no doubt, no looks askance,

We rode by catching The Thinker in France,

A stillness so still, it somehow moves.

A town, covered in shadows,

but stars so bright they light up the sky.

A man...an outcast.

An artistic genius in ungraceful solitude.

Thought to be a failure, but is so much more.

My hands sweep the art of my feet,

hard, calloused things overworked.

Wiggling into the paint and stomping around on the peat.

Faint markings are left, but there I grow art,

the paint blossoms into spirals,

from my feet- the paintbrush, the  artwork.