INSPIRATION
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POETRY & ART
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Brutal Beauty
Penetrating deeply into swampland, Exploring a world of diversity: Air, land, and water animals make grand Bonds in the form of a liquid unity. Skipping over the surface, the egret gazes For a fish meal, then swallows instantly. Alligator, sensing the presence, raises Snapping jaws to engulf the prey quickly. Cypress trees, ancient and venerable, Are growing unkempt beards of Spanish moss. Snakes, now make my way impenetrable. So, I give a pebble an angry toss. And with brutal beauty, I am filled. Life builds on life, death must yield! Ryan Tilley Bio: Ryan Tilley is an alumnus of LSU and was a member of the Orlando Poetry Troupe for two years. He lives in Central Florida with his wife, son, and Boxer. He has placed two poems in Writer's Digest contests, won runner-up eight times in The Saturday Evening Post's bimonthly limerick contest, won first place in The Political Poet's 2015 poetry contest, and won first place in The Baltimore Poe House and Museum's 2015 faux-Poe poetry contest. He has published poetry in New York Literary Magazine, Flare: The Flager Review, Twisted Vine, Genre Urban Arts, and The Raven Review. |
Marshland in Low Country
acrylics Wyn Foland
Bio: Wyn Foland has been painting, sketching, and involved in the arts most of her life. She works in watercolor, acrylics, and mixed media in miniature and large scale format. Now living in Port Royal, S.C., the area provides a rich history, culture, vistas, huge skies, variety of birds all providing an endless resource of subject matter. Thorough the years Wyn has started art festivals in H.S, started a co op gallery, owned her own gallery in Greenville,S.C., was a producer for a cable television show “In the Gallery" interviewing artists.She has exhibited her art work from Maine to Florida in local galleries, national and international exhibits, won many awards and had many one person and group exhibits. As a signature member of GWS, SCWS, MASF, elected member of Miniature Painters, Sculpture Gravers Society and board member and exhibitor of the Beaufort Art Association and exhibitor in Boyd Art Gallery on Peaks Island Maine, she spends a lot of time painting in her studio at Ladys Island Marina, SC. |
a Poetic Trio by Rocky Swartz
Vanishing
The intimacy of our youth sloughs away
Like layers of dead skin turning to dust
From the day you awaken and begin to
Identify with yourself in the past tense
Suddenly we are no longer that daydream
Image of innocence that at the time
You never realized you were, and later
When you recognize that you were
You no longer are. It’s a virtue escaping
That never comes full circle. We become
Something else, a transformation where
You are so preoccupied looking forward
To some disillusioned, imaginary goal
That you do not notice what you are
Leaving behind, and even as the future
Rises within like a finish on the horizon
At the far end of a vanishing point
You began to speak in the hushed tones
Of a faraway prayer you once proffered
It is no use: it is like trying to un-know
That you are going to one day die
This business of trying to know one’s self.
It always stays one step in front of you;
It is like a faraway voice calling out
In the distance weak and brittle; so fragile that
The mere whisper of the wind itself can
Shatter the illusion.
The intimacy of our youth sloughs away
Like layers of dead skin turning to dust
From the day you awaken and begin to
Identify with yourself in the past tense
Suddenly we are no longer that daydream
Image of innocence that at the time
You never realized you were, and later
When you recognize that you were
You no longer are. It’s a virtue escaping
That never comes full circle. We become
Something else, a transformation where
You are so preoccupied looking forward
To some disillusioned, imaginary goal
That you do not notice what you are
Leaving behind, and even as the future
Rises within like a finish on the horizon
At the far end of a vanishing point
You began to speak in the hushed tones
Of a faraway prayer you once proffered
It is no use: it is like trying to un-know
That you are going to one day die
This business of trying to know one’s self.
It always stays one step in front of you;
It is like a faraway voice calling out
In the distance weak and brittle; so fragile that
The mere whisper of the wind itself can
Shatter the illusion.
Abstract Art
Picking purple poppies planting visions I will reap,
Wading through euphoria while consciously asleep.
Seeking dreams from Morpheus, extending who I am,
Knowing that the virgin couldn’t ever understand.
Riding on the smoke rings of the caterpillar’s pipe,
Sewing on the buttons of the cactus when it’s ripe.
Sipping magic with your tea, eating mystic mushrooms,
Sharing riddles without ends and carols without customs.
Looking through the mirror like transparent cellophane,
Staring straight through my brain as if a clear window pane.
Chiming twelve times for the hour double it for the day,
Add one for good measure passing midnight on the way.
Do it twice for the chemist’s periodical chart,
While mindfully leary of the abstract and its art.
Picking purple poppies planting visions I will reap,
Wading through euphoria while consciously asleep.
Seeking dreams from Morpheus, extending who I am,
Knowing that the virgin couldn’t ever understand.
Riding on the smoke rings of the caterpillar’s pipe,
Sewing on the buttons of the cactus when it’s ripe.
Sipping magic with your tea, eating mystic mushrooms,
Sharing riddles without ends and carols without customs.
Looking through the mirror like transparent cellophane,
Staring straight through my brain as if a clear window pane.
Chiming twelve times for the hour double it for the day,
Add one for good measure passing midnight on the way.
Do it twice for the chemist’s periodical chart,
While mindfully leary of the abstract and its art.
A Wing and a Prayer
It was the first thing I noticed
Driving into the war torn hood,
Spread like the wings of an angel
Suspended from the sacrificial wire.
It could have been an orphaned god
Hanging helplessly in limbo
While silently contemplating
Who would notice or even care.
But years later, the crucified
Prophet still dangles his weathered soles
And frayed truism from the
Live wire of sociological dictum,
And the only thing that has changed
Is that there is now two more pairs
Dangling in sacrifice, left by thieves and
Discarded over the wire, one on the left,
One on the right. And still, no one else
Seems to notice or care. I guess
That’s just the way it is: when something
Profound has been true for so long,
We just take it for granted, or worse,
Ignore it altogether.
It was the first thing I noticed
Driving into the war torn hood,
Spread like the wings of an angel
Suspended from the sacrificial wire.
It could have been an orphaned god
Hanging helplessly in limbo
While silently contemplating
Who would notice or even care.
But years later, the crucified
Prophet still dangles his weathered soles
And frayed truism from the
Live wire of sociological dictum,
And the only thing that has changed
Is that there is now two more pairs
Dangling in sacrifice, left by thieves and
Discarded over the wire, one on the left,
One on the right. And still, no one else
Seems to notice or care. I guess
That’s just the way it is: when something
Profound has been true for so long,
We just take it for granted, or worse,
Ignore it altogether.
Rocky Swartz
Bio:
Rocky lives in Central Florida with his wife and children. He was a member of the Orlando Poetry Troupe for many years. I recall memorable performances when he read his romantic poetry, written to his wife. It is obvious from the first few lines of many works by Rocky that you are entering into a deep spiritual realm.
Some poetry even feels “other worldly”.
Bio:
Rocky lives in Central Florida with his wife and children. He was a member of the Orlando Poetry Troupe for many years. I recall memorable performances when he read his romantic poetry, written to his wife. It is obvious from the first few lines of many works by Rocky that you are entering into a deep spiritual realm.
Some poetry even feels “other worldly”.
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Mother Nature by Stacey Stevens
In Spring She rides on the wind scattering seeds here and there Soon new grass will grow where the ground once was bare And the little green shoots will sprout up into flowers Lovingly watered with the gentle rain sent down by the April showers. In Summer She runs barefoot through fields wearing flowers in her hair Past the babbling brook, and the weather is fair Now the leaves are all green in this picturesque scene And beauty is everywhere. In Autumn She wears a bright gown of orange, brown and red Hail The Foliage Queen! a wreathed crown on her head All the colorful leaves blow around peoples’ yards Soon Winter is coming, long, cold and hard. In Winter She wears a white robe that covers the ground As The North Wind blows snowflakes that swirl all around Holidays come and go, and the songs that we sing Now there’s nothing to do but to wait for the Spring! Stacey Stevens is Hinda’s spirit-sister from Boston. Her devotion to God is evidenced through her work as a flautist, poet, story and songwriter, Hebrew teacher, and fire service aficionado. |
Plums by Alejandra Vernon
Her adventurous life in Ecuador, Argentina, Jamaica, and Italy have influenced her color palette and themes. Her work has been at Alpers Fine Art in Andover, MA. & Chameleon in Newburyport, MA. She was a member of The Copley Society of Art, MA. and Long Beach Arts, CA. Alejandra won many awards, such as 1st. place San Diego County Fair, Del Mar, CA., 1st. Place Arts Around Boston Exhibit & too many shows to list here. She was in Who's Who in American Woman 2008-2009 edition. |
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Stray Dogs by John C. Griffin
Dislocated nerves seek peace of mind emotions fly under the radar, tears dried possessions stored in a paper bag on a Greyhound Bus from Savannah the gypsy drifter travels through rain plays Russian Roulette on Dead Man’s Curve a shouting voice in the distance says, “Woman overboard, abandon ship” storms approach without shelter Lucky Strike, Camel, any brand will do Sardines for dinner in a pop-top can stray dogs growl, howl at the moon the homeless man living under a bridge grown weary of looking for work, heartbeats caught in a rough patch tells the volunteer Doctor, “Nobody loves me, not even a bird or a cat.” John C. Griffin © 2024 John Charles Griffin is a Macon, Georgia author, spoken word performer, photographer and visionary artist. He was twice nominated for the Georgia Author of The Year in Poetry. Griffin serves on the Board of Directors at PASAQUAN in Buena Vista and the Board of Trustees Emeritus at The Big House. His published books include After the Meltdown, Dirt Road Visionary and Junk Yard Love Letters. www.dirtroadvisionary.com |
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