A Brand New Day 24x30

Okay...it is officially crazy here today! Running around getting stuff done ( yikes my hair)! Need to pickup a painting at my gallery.... get to the chiropractor...dogs need out....animals need fed...making coffee...answer the phone...print some stuff out for the article that I will be interviewed for today...pick veggies from the garden....on and on...Paint today?....maybe this evening....drats!
A few studio pieces today and that's about all I have time for except for two poems sent to me by two separate people by the same poet, Kim Addonizio....indulge yourself in her work....it's fabulous!!!


What do Women Want?
Sent to me by fellow artist Lori De Lozier

I want a red dress.
The Golden Hour 24x30 I want it flimsy and cheap,
I want it too tight, I want to wear it
until someone tears it off me. I want it sleeveless and backless,
this dress, so no one has to guess
what's underneath. I want to walk down
the street past Thrifty's and the hardware store
with all those keys glittering in the window,
past Mr. and Mrs. Wong selling day-old
donuts in their café, past the Guerra brothers
slinging pigs from the truck and onto the dolly,
hoisting the slick snouts over their shoulders.
I want to walk like I'm the only
woman on earth and I can have my pick.
I want that red dress bad.
I want it to confirm
your worst fears about me,
to show you
how little I care about you or anything except what
I want. When I find it, I'll pull that garment
from its hanger like I'm choosing a body
to carry me into this world, through
the birth-cries and the love-cries too,
and I'll wear it like bones, like skin,
it'll be the goddamned
dress they bury me in.
(by Kim Addonizio)

"What the Dead Fear"
Sent to me by fellow artist Marilyn York

On winter nights, the dead

see their photographs slipped

from the windows of wallets,

their letters stuffed in a box

and the clothes for Goodwill.

No one remembers their jokes,

their nervous habits, their dread

of enclosed places.

In these nightmares, the dead feel

the soft nub of the eraser

lightening their bones. They wake up

in a panic, go for a glass of milk

and see the moon, the fresh snow,

the stripped trees.

Maybe they fix a turkey sandwich,

or watch the patterns on the TV.

It's all a dream anyway.

In a few months

they'll turn the clocks ahead,

and when they sleep they'll know the living

are grieving for them, unbearably lonely

and indifferent to beauty. On these nights

the dead feel better. They rise

in the morning, and when the cut

flowers are laid before their names

they smile like shy brides. Thank you,

thank you, they say. You shouldn't have,

they say, but very softly, so it sounds

like the wind, like nothing human.

(by Kim Addonizio)

Fabulously frenzied....
Theresa