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  • Carl "Papa" Palmer
    · Reply

    Jacqueline, your art held near, close to my eyes, I see her table, her night light, her window reflecting
    her new room, her last room. Backing from the reflection , losing focus, concentration, familiarity,
    I want her to return, come back home.

    Her New Room

    The house was small
    where she raised her five children,
    but not as small as her new room.

    She lived in her house fifty-two years,
    but only for a couple of months
    now in her new room.

    She loomed large in her small house,
    yet now seems so tiny
    in the corner of her new room.

    Her house held the aroma of flower sachet
    with smells of delicious wonderment
    flowing warmly from her kitchen.

    Her new room has the reek of medicine
    with an underlying odor
    of pine oil disinfectant.

    She seemed to know everyone
    wherever she went
    and everyone knew her.

    Today she needs to be reminded
    of her daughter’s name, sitting
    beside her, holding her hand.

    Waiting in her new room
    she asks once more
    if it’s time to go back home.


    I remember when the ink tipped over
    staining everything in its path

    I never used fountain pens again

    and I never played under the arch
    I figured I’d be struck by the first brick to fall after the storm

    ending up as the latest chalk outline
    on the cordoned-off block

    Not that anyone would notice
    the gold leaf would distract would-be spectators

    now wondering what else is hidden within those walls
    Why else would they still be standing?

    The drawing of the monk in contemplation
    is a soothing presence amidst the decay

    while the spray paint reminds us
    that Leo loves Aries 4ever

  • Toby Wilcox
    · Reply

    Wonderful Diversity in Art, Word, Thought, & Vision!

  • Firelight
    By Duane Kirby Jensen
    – After looking at the painting “Moving into the Shadow”
    by Jacqueline Calladine at the VALA Art Center in Redmond, Washington

    Stumbling out of the raging storm
    he falls downward into a sheltering cave,
    stagnate air hangs with the heaviness of a stone slabs
    being piled on his chest.

    The vicious sound of whipping wind slashes the painted lands.
    His tattered nerves scream inside his head “Quiet! Quiet!”
    Soaked with three days of rain
    he finds solace in the caves steady floor.
    Outside the land remains in motion,
    dirt and grass breaking bond with stone.

    Wind does not enter this cave.
    It does not freshen the air he now breaths.
    Pin pricks of injuries building toward their own scream.
    He embraces the pain. Proof of his survival.

    Chilled flesh and bone push his mind towards questing for fire.
    Frantic hands hunt for lighter quickly located
    deep in right inside pocket
    next for a forgotten bag of salted nuts.
    With blind man hands he locates loose leafs, twigs,
    dry grasses and a pack rats nest that leap into flame
    illuminating ancient walls covered in stories.

    Awed eyes widened
    thoughts tremble
    memory races toward the caves of Lascaux.
    He thinks he hears footsteps.
    He thinks he hears laughter.
    He thinks he hears tears.
    His mind attempt to catalogue cave walls
    that displays the story of people who once flourished here.

    Dying flame shifts him back into the moment,
    quickly he gathers more fuel to feed greedy flames.

    Enrapture by the largest painting
    he surrenders himself into the narrative.
    His eyes trace rugged white strokes forming a lone human
    This man from another time
    arches his back,
    head cocked as if singing.
    Left arm upraised
    his right arm raised but bent at elbow
    seems ready to punch upward in victory.
    Behind this man shadows ungulate in joyful dance

    Intoxicated the man of flesh continues to drink in the story,
    not noticing dimming flames
    his slowing breath,
    his features hardening,
    or a new white outline of a man on bent knees
    bleeding through rock.

    Somewhere in the painted lands
    a lighter lays before a wall shrouded in darkness.

    © 2016 By Duane Kirby Jensen

  • Elizabeth Carroll Hayden
    · Reply

    Living in the Shadow

    You stare at me with your
    one gold eye.
    The other hides,
    and I wonder if its color
    is lust or merely possession.

    The glint seeps through the black hole.

    Pomegranate spilled on the bottom
    edge of hell.

    You cage me with that glare.

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