Miss Barbara Bush = Miss Ima Hogg = Two Texas matriarchs and kindred spirits with one common goal, purpose and vision. Miss Ima was a very influential Texas philanthropist and was, among many other things, an arts magnate, one of its fiercest advocates and most prolific patrons of the 20th century. She was an early champion of racial equality and believed that one of the ways it could be achieved was through equal access to and immersion in the arts, and was the architect of

And there I stood at the threshold of infinity, wondering when the tides would cease to swerve, when the moon would turn to face me and weep, when the lighthouse would become darkened by the sempiternal emptiness of unanswered questions. And then I chose a star to hold, to cherish and protect as the path takes on new direction. I speak to a destiny that radiates possibility, that dissipates the tribulations of yore and casts them into the pond where I once thoug

Tremble not when the forest of extreme desire becomes overgrown, when the trees pant and beg for eyes that never blinked during a moment of caprice, when pulsating worlds became intertwined and flowers laced with traces of virgin earth. Art: “Beating Heart” SarArt Sari #art #painting #contemporaryart #Artwork #literature #creativewriting #poetry #poem #ModernArt #Artist #Poet

Quickened by faint remembrances of a void desperate for her touch… Art: Odette Hayon Itah #writing #art #painting #contemporaryart #Artwork #literature #creativewriting #poetry #poem #ModernArt #Artist #Poet

Absorbed space, where the branches met their reflections and her solace birthed itself from eternal hiding, Where the minions of fate worked in concert to don the ornamented veil of futures subsequently resisted, Where drops of sky chased a soulless moon to its final appearance, returning to the fringes of darkened hours. Art: “The Black Swan” William Degouve de Nuncques #writing #art #Artwork #literature #creativewriting #poetry #poem #Artist #Poet

All that torment has loved has disappeared, and we remain hopeful. The significance of her efforts have not gone unnoticed; indeed, they have recapitulated old victories and insights that had been hitherto obscured by notions unseen and ideations to come. We rally together for a promise of worlds to be And fully satiate our desire for sanity by committing to novel patterns of doing and breathing deeper and more profound as if the air we knew all along turned in on i

Remnant footsteps along the strand; a tiny floret wistful and aloof Art: “Path through the High Grass” Pierre-Auguste Renoir #writing #art #Artwork #literature #creativewriting #poetry #poem #Artist #Poet

Blue elephants saunter in the moonlight, electricity keeps them Focused, like pilots on descent. There is no knowledge but bones. In this bowl there are mice. They squeal louder than the elephants. Someone hears them, I’m sure. The bowl is tossed out of the window As the mice scatter excitedly. Some of them are decapitated in the fall. A bus driver dressed like a pilot (we barely knew him) Took it upon himself to manually deflate each elephant with A pocket knife.

Lavender reveries concomitant with swift movements around, then through, then around again, never to return to their places of emergence, but to keep striving and transcending, until they become as one, and the ego is vanquished. And a remnant graces her quivering visage, wholly and concertedly renewed by a tender lattice of divine thought, in which the movements slow, and the colors dissipate in the space of a blink, and all that is left is a Barmecidal trance

Formless and inconstant paths, weighted roots with no foundation; whence does it arise but from a disjointed countenance with no proportion, or a leaf from a broken branch? Dust in the fields, sunless clouds in aimless procession, breathless winds and incorporeal birds that have forgotten their wings; the water’s edge no longer beckons. The once gentle and complaisant calf limps away in fear along a scabrous meadow that has turned in unto itself, where the borders

Enter the mist, Absorb your portion and extract your errant freedom from it. Soon there will be deities encircled about you starved for awareness, and moved to recognizance. Approach them where the light vanishes between their wistful eyes and render them the remnants of sated wilder beasts that only pray to deciduous reflections. The clusters will gather and coalesce, and perhaps sing for a moment. Deny them not their due space to bloom, to sway to and fro to the rhy

Resting solitude, beware the quivering hand of Night’s mercenary and the muted helical wisps of sweet despair that well-nigh consume the flesh of innocence. Lurid reflections recovered throughout the travails of unrelenting circular journeys foretell stories of transcendence and of sorrow, and of leaves waxing restful on the pond’s silent breast. Protean skies sit god-like on their thrones, Heads bowed, but shifting anxiously. The roots of these edifices will grow, t

It all commenced witha journey to the edge of shadows cast forth by a trace of light that smiled and imparted to me truths that seemed to persist throughout eons; Between one eon and the next a steady look speaks directly into my Being, causing it to stir with naïve inquiries into the state and manner of its origin. And the Sun began to recline possibly to fill in the gaps of lost space, arresting every silken prayer in its wake. An incandescent strand of her hair bin

Trace my steps knowingly with your whispered incantations. See me to the crest and look down on the terrace they have carved out for us. What of tenderness remains in the subdued glory of lowly pastures whose only wish was to fortify the outstretched arms of chance and the ploughman’s lament? Redemption lies just beneath the surface of impassioned passes to and fro, of weathered hopes and copious returns. Fruit beckons becoming as old iniquities are put to rest. A

A spindle emerges And worlds retreat into unknowing On all sides. The vortex has been reborn And it figures into the life of spaces Turgid with the fallen heroes of reminiscence And motion inflamed. And around it goes, Taking time with it and dissolving it Into hollow particles that move along Slightly curved corridors One by one, after a fashion. And blackened thoughts Begin to coalesce. The corridors straighten out And empty into vacuums of potential being Sea

We shall reflect upon the meaning of our disgrace, Grasping truth unencumbered by blinded eyes. Fugitive moments eagerly await the call of memory’s trace, To stand before the day duly countenanced by obscurity’s demise. We’ll hasten to discard every cloak and vain disguise, And submit to all that the interest of honesty requires. We’ll journey through forbidden caves of deceit and compromise, Abducting strange thoughts, denuding secluded desires. Fate guards the door

There is life here. And there are seeds aflutter with Gleeful songs and abstracted praises. And a blind bacchante coruscates with abandon, Dancing amid a night’s earnest welcome; And children enthralled by oblivion, Bought and sold by insular moments. Here is a toast to a passing frame, Of many a breath drawn, and taken away, Of an eye for nicety at times, And at times given to bland, tawdry components Hastily-refined (for my conscience). To a past extolled This new

From this vantage We have quelled our devils, Torn our veils, And dozed off in the effulgence of Being. For a time our hopes were recycled, Our superstitions dashed, Our reach for life extended into Flashes of distilled desperation For a gentle upsurge that drifts and transforms, That subsides and appears again Ever-more slight, ever-more humble, Dallying effortlessly with rambling thoughts along the embankment. Art: “Argenteuil Seen from the Small Arm of the Seine”

Feel the pangs of the restive heath below your feet That nightly howl for aught but whatever was conceived unaware of freedom, unquiet in sorrow, perpetually a moment removed from the next climax followed by understanding. Great is the hope that finds its place in the ever-widening vortex of unquiet crescents and honeyed arias, reaching out and contracting, interconnected on all sides, blind but frozen into a knowing gaze that sits quietly at the edge of the la

Take my final utterance and disperse it below, avoiding the mention of heathens hanging by the edges of denuded moonlights and visions steeped in worry for the possibility that refused the piercing psalm of the one-eyed cockcrow. Consume this docile flower with my laughter in mind, and the slight stroke of your hand against where my face used to be. Recall the quiet sway of brittle trees poised for celebratory gyrations in honor of disjointed myths and weather-