If My House Were a Bathtub – Painting

If my house were a bathtub

it would always be filled to the brim

with deliciously hot water.

Warm and relaxed,

I would float on my back

and look up at the stars.

My ears would fill with water,

dulling out the sharp sounds.

Calm. Quiet. Silence.

If my house were a bathtub

I would bring in the dirt

just to wash it away.

I would be free from heavy roles and expectations.

The weight of the world on my shoulders

would slip down the drain.

I would be as light as a feather

and as free as a duck -

to float, swim or fly.

I would be free to be me.

If my house were a bathtub.

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This painting and poem is from a series of four black and white watercolor paintings. The first painting is “Mama Bear”, the second is “If My House Were a Couch”, this is the third and the fourth is, “If My House Were a Campfire.”

 

If My House Were a Couch – Painting

If my house were a couch

it would beckon those from far and near

to lay down their troubles and their fears

 for here was a place of rest.

It would call out like a sparrow’s song,

Come, come. The night is long.

Be a candle and melt in to me.

 

If my house were a couch

it would be softer than a newborn’s cheek,

sturdier than a woodpecker’s beak

and smell of fresh cedar boughs.

It would never stain nor need a wash

not even from spaghetti sauce.

 

If my house were a couch

every nook would be a place of rest,

a book would lay upon on my chest

and time would almost stop.

I’d lean back with an iced fruit drink

and ignore the dirty kitchen sink.

My mind would be at peace, I think.

And just imagine, a child’s dream:

my whole house would be a trampoline.

A giggle would come from every bounce.

Laughter would shriek from every pounce.

If my house were a couch.

 

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This is the second painting in a series of black and white watercolor paintings. The first painting was called, Mama Bear. The third and fourth are called, If My House Were a Bathtub and If My House Were a Campfire.

Sing a Song

Sing a song of sixpence, a pocket full of rye,

Four and twenty blackberries baked in a pie.

When the pie was opened our mouths began to sing,

Oh, wasn’t that a dainty dish to set before the king.

The king was in a bath of berries, counting out his money.

The queen was eating raspberries, sweeter than honey.

The maid was in the garden, washing berries from the clothes,

When down came a blackberry and landed on her nose!

To Market, to Market

To market, to market to buy a wallet.

Home again, home again, jiggidy jig.

Good price, good price. Only for you!

Made by hand, made by hand. Will you buy two?

To market, to market to buy a wallet.

Home again, home again, jiggidy jig.

Up in the Air

Up in the air -

it’s cold up there -

up where the birds fly.

Up in the air -

say a little prayer -

hope that we don’t die.

Up in the air -

good food is rare -

movies, my only ally.

Up in the air -

are we there? Are we there?

Goodbye, cramped seats, goodbye!

It’s that time of year again

Pink snow

falls onto my nose

and covers my toes.

I look up at the canopy overhead

once lifeless,

asleep,

and now

from each bough

color and life bursts forth.

She is a mother, on the brink of death,

who takes her last breath

only to find

a symphony emerge

and surge

deep within her veins.

Her cancer becomes a ballet dancer.

Adorned in pink jewels, swirling in the sky,

she twirls en l’aire,

with grace and flair.

Renewed.

Revived.

Alive.

She is a my favorite grandmotherly neighbor:

Mrs. Cherry Blossom,

it’s nice to see you again.

Beauty in My Backyard

 

Chinese Lanterns:

beauty in my backyard.

A treat of beauty and color,

delicate and intricate.

A lace curtain sheltering my glowing heart.

Fear not:

Vulnerability

Fear not.

 

Blood

Our blood is like an ocean,

brimming with life and pulsating with richness.

A stunning display of artistic bokeh.

 

Our blood craves a fix

- like a junkie -

of action and oxygen.

“Use me!” it cries. “Work me!” it moans.

 

But we ignore.

We sit.

And we sit and we sit and we sit.

 

Forlorn, our blood mopes

as it sends us a note:

Aches, pain and illness to you!

I bid you adieu with a case of the flu

and shant visit you

until you send me racing like a river, cascading down a waterfall,

bent over in hysterics – gasping for air – laughing, twirling and splashing

in the Red Sea.

(Not the Dead Sea.)

Adieu!

Love Grows Here

Love grows here.

In the warm embraces of loved ones come from afar.

Grandmas and grandpas. Aunts and uncles.

In the sweetness of laughter and gelato.

In the stories, swimming, hiking and adventures.

In the savory chips shared outside 7-11.

In knowing that you are not alone in this world.

Love grows here.

Beauty on the inside

The petals have fallen

letting the inner beauty shine through.

A graceful ballerina

with a red tutu.

As I age

I hope

that happens to me too.