Paintings Stories

I feel like a Dali paintingmy image warpedby your own imaginationImperfection of this bodydesecrated with scarscrafted by your own torturous mindTime meltingwinding back to forgotten dayswords spoken and virtual hugs we sharedMemories soon fadelike forging fire into ashwhich you silently blow awayWhat once we hadhas slowly disappearedof a friendship separated by oceans wideThe drawer within my chestwhich protected our che...

My hand holds no brush. This dish is what I have. And children, lovely clatter of voices flooding the days. Eggs scrambled, boys off to school. The little one plays dolls while another sleeps, her weeks- old breath rowing ceaseless, hungry while I dream canvasses stretching outlines on ocher- soaked linens, Earth- dug umber, sienna, yolk yellows, wet, oily and waiting to bleed thick and gummy from the brush,the scent an e...