Doubt interrupts regrets -resentful-
the arch requires firm math and physics to sustain
as for other
comes in questioning
Sunless skies, endless
grey clouded over grey crusted
snow, creating havoc for crocus shoots
struggling to make their stand.
Winter, a slow
death by its thousand windy cuts
and imperceptable emotional fade, now
so few words shared between them.
All purple and
orange in full bloom swathed across
front yard lawns stirring expectations, and
memories of their languid summer days.
days that start warm ending warmer,
their uninterrupted steady sun and their
sleeveless shirts and moist sweaty skin.
Sun, her kiss
once assured his unsteady heart. So many
purple and orange reasons to be hopeful but
March, always the cruel reminder.
written March 2013
revised FOR April 2013 :- /
Prolific, he wrote poems, published books,
ideas flowed like waterfalls, not brooks.
My father wrote of nature, music, art,
most in poetic form, sharp as a dart.
He chose his words with utmost care to tell
the stories stirring in his head, to spell
ideas with suspense and tension. Four
weeks after he had died I found some more
of his fine poems. One, though, brought my tears.
Its subject? Me as little girl. He’d not
shared it. I wondered why. Emotion shot
through me. I read this poem. My dad nears.
I saw, each morning, 8 am, the man,
his German Shepherd walking. Rain or clear,
they trudged the desert trails. A snake came near.
My father froze, held leash tight. Nature’s plan
played out. The snake crawled slowly off the road
and sunned itself upon a nearby rock.
Then, walking on, recovered from the shock
of his encounter with a rattler, slowed,
and watched the road ahead and to the side.
He was not filled with fear or angst or dread,
but deserts offer warnings to be read.
You never know where rattlesnakes might hide.
Chase me through the rain
shout my name out loud
I turn my head I laugh
drops from clouds hit my
face, chase me up the hill
my dress soaked through
the wind will not banish
your voice it only carries
it closer to me
hits my face like the rain
chase me my love, up to the top
where the willows brush the earth
you love me..is that what you said
rain shall not dampen how I feel
hearing those three words
run to me, catch me and throw
me to the ground take me
if you will, you said you loved me
nothing else in the world matters
not the rain, nor the wind
you love me, I want your love under
the willow branches
Overweight, my foot steps are
heavy across the ground
its bitter and snow covers all around
but I am inside safe and warm
I need the rest to have a break
can’t control the food that I intake
I’m tired it’s been a hard cold year
but it’s not the tiredness that I fear
I want to shut away the world
be quiet left alone nothing to disturb
no one to listen should I moan
food is my only comfort my
self pleasure and my need
don’t judge me for what I am
don’t tsk or shake your head
for you do not know the real me
I’ve struggled this whole fall
my home my sanctuary far away
from staring eyes who think me
a disgrace people are so quick to surmise
why they think I am obese they do not know the
emptiness nor the struggles that I’ve faced
no they just seem frightened do they think perhaps I’m bad
or ashamed because of my size which truly makes me sad
No no-one hasn’t got a clue
they naturally walk the other way
not willing to get to know me
or how I feel today they look in my
direction but simply scamper by
not willing to come near me due only to my size
fear in their eyes they look upon me with abomination
but I am simply a grizzly bear ready for hibernation
Sudden pillows is what life needs
Dreams flower a meadow of weeds
Over horizons crops can grow
Upon collected ground scythes low
Break soil for urgent empire seeds
Further on where sweat starts beads
Lined up together against deeds
Piling with soreness’ overflow
Prayers come quiet take the lead
Even absent come for this plead
Return a wish of ebb and flow
Resistance can stay or may go
This life has no fantasy’s greed
When my art career began, I received an assignment to create eight paintings of seashells to be sold as prints. I am posting more images from that project. Below are my paintings and I have included some close-ups. Here is a link to: A SEASHELL MEDLEY – PART 1
© 2013 by Judy Unger, http://foodartist.wordpress.com, http://www.myjourneysinsight.com & 20 Lines A Day. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Judy Unger with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.
behind the window
cracked and rotted wood
falling flakes of paint
curtain not of any colour
old, no longer pretty
behind the window
peering out to the garden
sliding her hand along the grimy glass
that she was once able to see through
clearly, but now cannot
how is her mind
behind the window
casting her eyes on weeds
below that need
removing for they old
no longer cared for
and she asks herself …. why don’t they come to visit anymore
When my art career began, I received an assignment to create paintings of seashells that would be sold as prints.
I was given the assignment after sharing the above painting with a publisher. I needed to come up with 8 paintings that were unique. He only requested that there weren’t any shells cropped off.
I made my paintings differ by the amount of seashells; there were a pair of single shells and two pairs of groups. Another pair of paintings even included driftwood with the seashells.
I loved the beautiful colors, textures and shapes of the seashells that I illustrated. I also ended up having a wonderful shell collection when I was finished. I share four of the posters here with some close-ups. For the sand, I splattered the paint with a toothbrush.
I have a blog where I describe my technique and have a lot more information. It is at:
© 2013 by Judy Unger, http://www.myjourneysinsight.com and 20 Lines A Day. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Judy Unger with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.
A shell, a piece of bone, a tumbleweed,
some driftwood, Indian beads, a little stone…
these things hold memories, and how I need
them. Grandchildren learned names of shells with speed
from my collection. Don’t forget pinecone
to add to shell and bone and tumbleweed.
My mother cooked Thanksgiving once to feed
us in the pinewoods. Warm that year, sun shone.
These things hold memories. O, how I need
remembrance of the driftwood she would plead
with us to bring up from the beach. Windblown,
a shell, a piece of bone, a tumbleweed
arrived onshore. And then we would impede
their further travels, as our mom was prone
to loving things of nature. They, her need,
defined her as might the Apostles’ Creed.
Each lovely signature stood all alone
in her home, shell and bone and tumbleweed.
I understand the memories I need.