|thanks for dropping by...please explore & enjoy in FULL view|
|here are some select works of mine that received awards in juried all-media shows or other special recognition; please enjoy in FULL view|
|Please enjoy in FULL view ~|
|Please enjoy in FULL view ~|
Hospital Poetry: Hayley's Comet“What’s happening?”Hospital Poetry: Hayley's Comet by Rosary0fSighs
“Hayley went off like a Christmas cracker.”
Eyes agog. Silence; a blank pop in the hubbub of cheery chatter, before the inevitable –
“You know – a Christmas cracker. Went off. Had another seizure!” Impatient patient stamp of the slipper.
“Ohhhh I get it. Uh… festive.”
“Ha ha ha. Ho ho ho. Very merry.”
Dasher and Prancer sly eyes and Vixen smiles.
I tug uncomfortably on my NG. Bad taste bubbling into every periphery.
Hospital Poetry: Feasts of HopeWe are two skeletons huggingHospital Poetry: Feasts of Hope by Rosary0fSighs
Painted fingertips matchsticking to
slotting in to Jenga-brick-towers of
into darkness and despair,
far from rooks and men.
High in ivory babels of our own making –
lofts from whence we locked
innocence and ice princesses away in infancy.
Unlearning how to bear pain
how to feel and what it means for hearts to crack and melt
bleed, and heal.
We are afraid
Of those gentle white Humpty egg rows of
pearls in our fallopian webs;
Precious dew dropping, hush! to our thighs.
Soft, gelatinous constellations in our wombs –
a dress-up that doesn’t fit;
a play for which we lack curves and cues
(settling instead for NG tubes).
We are sick to death of breadcrumbs and witches' lolly-cooked houses;
sticky-sweet in the dark -
creeping traps hoping to snare us in bone cages and
feed us up plump enough to eat
(Mickey-Buttons in place of chocolat
Hospital Poetry: Half MoonsOur favourite nurse brings usHospital Poetry: Half Moons by Rosary0fSighs
nail polishes gift-wrapped
on Christmas day
to brighten up the white-washed crescent beds
of our hands
match the pale walls of the ward.
I choose silver stardust
reminiscent of tinsel
Hospital Poetry: ECGPaintbrush vials striping sunlight from the windowHospital Poetry: ECG by Rosary0fSighs
liquid neck, swollen body pale and rounded
loose pill seeds spill like snow.
Fingers tracing skin into velvet
violet phosphate bruises the colour of a fig
The dark hollow crooks of oxide eyes shadow cheekbones
standing rapt to attention like silver tin soldiers.
Fugitive exposed in artificial lights
shrinking strangely, belly full of secrets in the disquiet,
tongue romancing the edge of an unreliable knife.
She is made from earth, rotted organic soul and lungs filled with loam
funeral urn in her mouth, holding the softened embalmed heart turning to paint
a dark reddish brown.
Stretched naked on a bed, with wires testing her pulse across a page
lips dewed with saliva on skin, like the alibi path of a snail
she becomes luminous in the fluorescent light,
body an unfamiliar home curled on her mind’s back
Little Girls LostSlow scissor strokes cut the canvas corsets from our waistsLittle Girls Lost by Rosary0fSighs
laces slack and curling over hollow cheekbones to wasted insides
tubes pouring food from doctors in white administering medicine
pink heads blurred in a bare room that barely holds conversation.
Naked lips with lullabied tongues too sleepy to curl over sweets and
dark wine blots discolouring slender necks with sluggish swan feathers in blue
a patchwork of uncirculated blood.
The mirror whispers its distorted curves in the lamp light
and unthimbled fingers are pricked to check blood sugar
instead of spinning wheels.
We sleep for a thousand years
spool threads of hair falling loose, to masted shoulders
a chandelier of sadness and little girls lost.
Imagining bodies carved in marble or stone
translucent in the twilight with veins of quartz
cloth filled mouths make for heavy skulls in so much silence.
GirlsI have always envied those girls for whomGirls by childwoman
Beauty hangs easy on the frame
Draped like a tailored jacket
Elegant like a Jimmy Choo
Armani Prada Gucci; polished, smooth
I have always been a girl for whom
Beauty suits but rarely
Something fought for and never won
Something unintended, accidental, foreign
Awkward face awkward body; frazzled, frizzy
Their knee-high leather boots (dark brown, soft)
Clack crisply on the polished floors
Of the family homes in the wealthy suburbs
My knee-high Doc Martins (floral print, loud)
Make little sound as the rubber soles whisper
Over mud and bicycle pedals and puddles
Their hair is always shiny and straight
A curtain and a shield all in one
Framing tastefully made up features
That are undoubtedly fine and feminine
My hair does what it wants
Preferable with me having to waste no time on it;
Does little to hide a big chin, loud voice,
And what people often mistake for self-confidence
I envy their polished grace and manifest ease
The way they know what to s
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Unless the number of deviations is too voluminous, I strive to review most if not all the works available in the galleries of those I watch.
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To those I watch and or otherwise attend, thank you for the art you bring into the world. It surrounds my life with joy and lightness of being!