Category: Portraits

Words can paint, each letter, a bristle of a brush. The sentence becomes a stroke. Paragraphs shape objects. A portrait needs no beginning, middle, or end. When we look deep at a painting, we can’t help but wonder why the Mona Lisa smiles. If you look deep enough at portraits, close enough to pick out desire, they jump out of the frame. The frame is the story. Break out! Break out!

Ripple

Branches, once a small bridge, lie over missing mud, lose their original meaning. Now, a hard turf sits like a soft concrete, an uneven glaze dried upon them. The branches are caked, bricks in dirt, an ancient architecture. I see the trail, in its…

Water Wars

Reservoir #5 Click on image to enlarge. More images found here.      

Pumpkin And Mice

She’s cold. She steals a shirt. pulling it over her body, glazed in sweat, half dry, half oily. No one will touch her, not even herself. She’s attracted to a sweatshirt hanging on a rafter, yanking on it with her arms high in the…

The Harvester and the Crone

He was an old orchard, still in the shape of rows. But time had scattered his buzzing and his feet made noise upon layers of fallen twigs. Still, he searched, moved with purposeful steps, noise and all. She knew he would find her. He…

Movement

(Click on image to enlarge)    

A Cold Bridge

On freezing nights when the river settles, the reflection of city lights is clearer than the real lights. She views this better on the bridge, her winter pilgrimage. Colder than the air, she grips its handrail. Her hands pull away only at the moment…

Soul Fire

Image taken at Mt. Tabor, January 2019 More images here.    

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