Frances Loretta. Started in 1997, signed in 2004. Oil on hand-stretched canvas. No prints available. 13×19”.
Tag Archives: angel
No GOODBYES. See you again, my friend. (For Stephanie C. Havran. 10/17/83 – 7/24/2014. I miss you so much, mama.)
I lost one of my best friends last night.
I feel like I am swimming underwater.
She was only 30,
and left behind a 12 year old little boy who adored her.
who could not get past the broken part of her that hurt so
badly with the mental/emotional torment that many uber-intelligent people
the same kind of clothes, both loved David Foster Wallace
and swimming and trees, art, writing, and BOOKS BOOKS BOOKS.
was busy. The grief I feel at not having gone is
unfathomable. I hate myself for this.
I will never see her sunshiny blond head and shy smile
I was wearing her clothes this morning when I found out.
She was a recovering anorexic who gave me heaps of her “skinny clothes” —
just five days ago.
(I told her I was glad that at least SHE did not fit into them, and then laughed sarcastically at my morbid self-deprecation.)
She said she prayed for me every day and gave me a hug.
Give them a hug too. Ask them how they are…
how they REALLY are.
will gave you the last
Rest in peace, Stephanie, dear friend.
I hope you finally have found peace.
You are loved and will be missed by so many.
I will NOT say goodbye.
To honor single mothers everywhere who CHOSE LIFE:
Your little one says, “Thanks, Mama.”
Happy Mother’s Day.
A single mom sans child. ❤
She found a pristine paintbrush and painted her half of the portrait out, easily and without any thought. In its stead, she painted an azure cloudless sky. And three white rabbits, one sitting on his shoulder. His strange, absent gaze fell upon the creature now instead of upon her upturned nose.
In the sky, where clouds might have have been floating aimlessly by on any given day, she scrawled two simple words in violet cursive:
She caught a fleeting whiff of fresh cut lilacs, turned her back on the painting , and walked into the waning sunlight of an early summer evening, extinguishing a white candle on her way.
This makes my heart swell with love, joy, pride of mama-hood,
and sadness for an innocent little elf who deserves so, so much more.
God bless you, William James Maxwell Cunningham.
You are my everything.
I will never, ever abandon you — and I will give you every iota of my heart and soul
as long as I am alive
on this earth.
♥ ♥ ♥
You will be aware of an absence, presently,
Growing beside you like a tree,
A death tree, color gone, an Australian gum tree —
Balding, gelded by lightning — an illusion,
And a sky like a pig’s backside, an utter lack of attention.
But right now you are dumb.
And I love your stupidity,
The blind mirror of it. I look in
And find no face but my own, and you think that’s funny.
It is good for me
To have you grab my nose, a ladder rung.
One day you may touch what’s wrong
The small skulls, the smashed blue hills, the godawful hush.
Till then your smiles are found money.
Sylvia Plath 26 September 1962
Stasis in darkness.
Then the substanceless blue
Pour of tor and distances.
How one we grow,
Pivot of heels and knees!–The furrow
Splits and passes, sister to
The brown arc
Of the neck I cannot catch,
Berries cast dark
Black sweet blood mouthfuls,
Hauls me through air—-
Flakes from my heels.
Godiva, I unpeel—-
Dead hands, dead stringencies.
And now I
Foam to wheat, a glitter of seas.
The child’s cry
Melts in the wall.
Am the arrow,
The dew that flies,
Suicidal, at one with the drive
Into the red
Eye, the cauldron of morning.
everything is arbitrary now,
i am grateful for
the small accidents:
a broken china cup.
spilled white sugar.
a burned fingertip, a razor
these things force me
out of the ether and into
make me BE, Jesus
just where i am
planted in the earth. it hurts
it hurts. the salt of the
earth, it hurts.
this salt of the earth
to tender slugs born sans armor
i am still
Mia dolce William,
L’estate sta scivolando da subdolamente, con un vuoto lasciato tra le mie braccia dove hai utilizzato per essere costantemente. Un’altra Domenica trascorso sul ponte, inutilmente lettura di 2 anni arretrati vecchia di Newsweek e resistenza (non sempre con successo) la voglia di e-mail di tuo padre sui danni che ha fatto.
Tutto ciò che fa male così acutamente. Vedendo gli altri ragazzi del bambino seduto nel seggiolino per bambini dei carrelli della spesa a Pathmark. Annunci Magazine per la formula di bambino. Il tuo cappello piccolo dom denim, ora troppo piccolo per la testa, sdraiato tristemente in panchina pianoforte.
E ‘quell’ora magica, quando il fiordaliso azzurro del cielo comincia a girare sempre in modo leggermente rosa e, come sempre, sto pensando a te, figlio mio dolce. Ancora una volta la piscina per bambini ha accumulato una collezione pietosa di foglie e insetti ribelle, che, pensando che può fare un tuffo veloce, ha incontrato la loro prematura scomparsa. Le lucciole stanno appena iniziando a lampeggiare con orgoglio i loro gruppi ottici posteriori e vorrei poter mostrare loro a voi. Ma tu non sei qui, e qui mi siedo – potatura mia pianta di basilico su qualcun altro … e di nuovo ponte a guardare le formiche senza meta, mentre meandri che desiderano fossi uno di loro. Oh, se non altro per non sentire nulla.
Il sole sta calando, e stanno crescendo troppo buio per vedere quello che sono scarabocchi. Sto piangendo, desiderio di abbracciarti e non lasciarti andare.