Posted in January 2012

Vertebration

ink drawing/painting on paper  (9-1/2″ X 12″)
by Kristine Zoodedoo

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I AM A GIRL

I set The Glass of Wine

XOXOX

on the sill of  My

Panoramic View

All Is Decided

My Life WILL

make sense

at least to Me

at The End

(this is not a suicide note)

may I write

I am Happy?

I am logically married

My House Beautiful –

but I don’t live in a magazine

I live in My Reality

I HAVE CREATED

January 16th 2012   The Hawk 4:56pm

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The Leaf

Could it be you are a god

As you love me like one

I hold you tightly in my limbs

Yet somehow you slip away

My pain exposed and raw

On a hook to be cured

To feed, feed, feed

My children and my world

And you, my beloved god

Cannot change this for me

Only in falling to the ground

Does a leaf kiss the trunk

And lays in a bed of decay

To grow in love again

                                            Jackie Blair McSween

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Owl Head

Painted in The Hawk Kitchen January 23rd 2012 with water soluble oil 26" x 22"
by Joanna Gilman Hyde

Owl Head

I am a Performance Artist

My Easel is a Set Up

I decide 2 colours

2 basic strokes

2 directions

but there are no guarantees

 

My Outfit is a clingy black nightgown

protected

by a new kitchen apron

Black Ankle Sox

adorn My Feet

My Teeth are brushed

but I am

unbathed


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Lost

His words came trickling toward her through the thicket of sound that separated her from the world. His face was anxious that was clear. She had no idea why. He seemed to be very determined that she do something. She didn’t know what. She wasn’t even sure that she cared.

Actually, as she looked at him with focused effort, all that she was sure of was that she didn’t know who he was at all. The sounds that hummed and swam became brambles that swallowed her. She gave herself up to them.

….

In this place it is not really dark nor is it light. It is an always-twilight. Definitely not dawn. The topography is shapeless, colorless, flat. It isn’t foggy or smokey, nor like the moonscapes we all imagine. For this lone traveller (because you never meet another being in this place – each traveler is in their own world entirely) it is as if she has been placed inside a colorless map, one that is shut inside the glove box of the car. There is nothing to see and even if there was, with no vantage point, there is no perspective.

The ground is a different matter altogether. It is full of holes, like the child’s toy where you have to put the right shaped block into the right shaped hole. These are islands surrounded by rushing creeks that come up out of the ground and then as abruptly disappear. There are tiny footpaths along which you step with great care and even these are sometimes smothered by rolling dunes of sand.

It is here that you can get Lost. Lost isn’t falling into the shapes, or being carried away by the creek. Lost is when the path vanishes altogether and there is no way back for forward, and the light never changes and there are no landmarks by which to even guess your way home.

And all around you, like a vibration that comes and goes as if someone is irregularly striking a gong, are waves of sound. Sometimes, and more and more often the longer you stay there, the gong-ringer forgets to strike and there are passages of absolute silence. Not a clean, clear, ringing silence, but one that is stuffed with cotton wool so that not a single breath of air leaks through and reaches your plugged ears.

Slowly through the cotton wool, the bramble of sound returns. You can’t push it away. You have to wait for it to lift and when it does? You are back in the regular world again. Sometimes even there the topography is foreign, the shapes lack familiarity and the creeks rise with no warning.

….

The days that she made the little treks through the world as we know it, became fewer, shorter and more and more difficult. The thicket grew thicker, and brambles of sound more and more invasive, until one day she just didn’t come back out.

Her son tried to find her, he really did. So did the doctors, the kind ladies volunteering at the rest home and her grandchildren. But she was lost to them all, to the world and to herself.

by Kate Hawks

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Sonnet 6

fret to the first strum
a drummer’s sound
may seem dumb
or poem found
a wheel turn
the brake
as wicked earn
for heaven’s sake
the fingers ask
the map they know
what task?
be ever slow
and i know who
you

thom olsen

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Storm

oil on canvas (44 x 72)
by Jill Joy

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The Lax

“I’m runnin’ into the store
Do ya need anything?”
It never used to be a chore
But then the door bell rang

‘Cause there’s only one way
To see the morning at night
You gotta breathe what I say
But not in mid-flight

When the sky was still lucid
And the hairs on the back of your neck
Were standing like Iwo Jima
It never occurred, staunchly putrid
Not one single speck
That she’d be from Lima

But things can be freaky that way
Like visions from beyond
Or channelling what you know is vrai
Having never even ratified “the bond”

It’s time we start smiling 1
Like things weren’t really this way
Counter-productive, selectively piling
And I’ve got the trey!

Yeah, those were the days
They didn’t even tax the tax
If it were not for the malaise
We wouldn’t be so lax

O.G. Hawkins

1 – George Harrison

 

 

 

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Disintegrating Heart

acrylic on canvas (16″ x 20″) circa 2005
by Joanna Hyde

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