3 minds are better….

3 minds are better....

a collage in chalk made by some friends



Escaping duality not what it seems

Erasing the part that cries out & screams

Seeking the truth, inside of the mind

Denying the faults that once had been mine

A cowering ego, lost in the fight

For radiant beauty, the being of light.

Beyond the boundary of transient verbs,

Into the unknown, a world without words.

pastel/charcoal on clayboard

Guilt not given

Jury duty has to be one of the most mind numbingly boring things out there. After over-hyping the whole process in an awfully produced video, which did no justice to the, ah, judicial process in which we are supposed to participate. I sat up there, in the sky, imagining myself in an airplane due to the turbulent whooshing of the air vents. Certainly not wanting to be there, nor wishing to be called into a courtroom for an actual trial. To assuage the near state of catatonia I began doing diligent doodles in a daze.. & having some wonderful fun alliterating..

Tater Tots & Tea

Perfectly portioned

Plump potato pieces,

Properly plated,

Playfully picked,

Pleasingly popped

In my mouth.

In a cavernous chamber,

Choosing cheerfully candid conversation

Conveyed crosswise,

Casually chugging cappuccino,

Curiously caffeinated chai,

Carefully cupped coffee

Chuckling, conveying conscious change.

Charging countless cations.


coming in 3’s

My first attempt at a sonnet, sticking to more strict form than I usually do. Followed by another work which may have inspired it slightly.

deep seated urban decay
times in which we live
life leaking through a sieve.
truth on mute while lies do play
voices know not what to say
all to take and none to give
living life without motive,
waiting for ‘someday’
when freedom will arise.
stripped of all their power
it comes as no surprise
as cowards will then cower
from light that makes one wise
when comes this blessed hour.

Anthem for Doomed Youth

by Wilfred E. Owen

What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?
Only the monstrous anger of the guns.
Only the stuttering rifles’ rapid rattle
Can patter out their hasty orisons.
No mockeries now for them; no prayers nor bells,
Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs,—
The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells;
And bugles calling for them from sad shires.

What candles may be held to speed them all?
Not in the hands of boys, but in their eyes
Shall shine the holy glimmers of good-byes.
The pallor of girls’ brows shall be their pall;
Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds,
And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.

and since we’re on firsts, my initial foray into pastel on canvas. Still in progress: