I am a cartoonist; have been drawing them since I could hold a crayon.
I will dabble them on paper, cardboard, metal, wood, and rayon.
But I did not know until I was over sixty that I am also a painting fool.
I did not learn anything about either from a mentor or any school.
In ten years I have painted over sixteen hundred of my cartoons.
enough stacked in my garage to make me one of several buffoons.
sure, I am a writer too, and a poet, especially fond of rhyming.
things have come to me automatically, not my own idea or timing.
God has graced me with many talents, and I am overjoyed with His grace.
If I did not take advantage of these gifts, I would feel like a disgrace.
Categories:
rayon, god,
Form: Rhyme
She was a lady in waiting back in the day, merry and gay.
The dressed her in fashionable robes in her heyday.
She is a magnet for butterflies, faeries, dragonflies and moths.
They love her exotic dresses made of silk and rayon cloths.
Butterflies surround her, and faeries prance past her too.
We love her warm colors of pink, lemon, peach, lavender and blue.
Categories:
rayon, 10th grade, 11th grade,
Form: Free verse
Shutting the lights on today's rayon memories
I trade them in for a moment on the heart
Tinseled thoughts of chivalrous stories
of ancient tales, retold from ear to mouth
Christmas expectations and blue spruce oblations
snow squalls and blizzards, sub zero weather
Inside our dotting duplex a life of rotation
a father daughter union, together we tethered
beneath the well lit recall of yesterday's demise,
lives a treasured memory of father 's minced up pies.
December 10, 2021
Categories:
rayon, appreciation, christmas,
Form: Rhyme
The book you offered to me
waits by my side,
in its silky blanket
while is risking
a timid autumn sun.
If I open it, I guess
leaves contain
much more than a ray,
because when I dive into it
these are your words that I think I read.
So it develops
all along the pages,
as if your hot breath
accompanied a tiny new plant
towards spring.
____________________________
Le livre que tu m'as offert
attend à mes côtés,
dans sa couverture soyeuse
pendant que se risque
un timide soleil d'automne.
Si je l'ouvre, je devine
que ses feuilles contiennent
bien plus qu'un rayon,
car, quand je m'y plonge
ce sont tes paroles que je crois y lire.
Ainsi se développe-t-elle
a fil des pages ,
comme si ton souffle chaud
accompagnait une nouvelle pousse
vers le printemps.
RC
Categories:
rayon, autumn, books, french, spring,
Form: Free verse
We’ve been lost all these years in time across the ocean
A license to yearn for a litany of emotion,
Our youthfulness to burn in a life of devotion
An intellect to earn an ideal, a whim a notion.
Yet hazy days to remember a hillside to laze on
Sunrise in harmony Sailor fields to gaze upon,
Morning dew highlighting the view, spiders weaving rayon
Ilkley tarn a glistening stage to majestic swan.
Jiving with bees to the foxy on the record label
Our youth now gone, a flash to display to enable,
A new generation to care for and to listen to this our fable
Of reams of mementos, with pints of beer on the table.
Together we made it the good times, the pain
Someone to talk with and walk with in Monday’s rain!
© Harry J Horsman 2018
Categories:
rayon, nostalgia,
Form: Rhyme
I love being rayon,
So cool in tropic's heat,
I dry fast when wet, wrinkle free!
Audacious hues surprise,
A medley for your eyes.
Fabric soft as butterfly wings.
11-6-17
© Connie Marcum Wong
* I was too late to enter the contest
Categories:
rayon, clothes, color, cool, fashion,
Form: Verse
The best gift I received was a cover
In 1975 from my mother
You are thinking ‘that’s a terrible presents’
But back then we were cold, hungry peasants.
It was fluffy polyester with rayon
Or was it pink polyester and nylon?
It was labeled a ‘velvety soft mink’
Never washed it became the ‘pink stink’
I would turn myself into a taco
And feel like I’d won life’s big lotto.
Categories:
rayon, family, funny, holiday, mother,
Form: Rhyme
Her paintings of sarongs I'm going to see
will be there for two months,
I think, at Lake Of The Clouds
Arts. I heard this in the news: Layers died last week.
Native Brown Bear got studied thoroughly.
It has been exonerated. The Killer Brown
has been exonerated, according to the news.
According to some searching I find out the layers
are just mist...
Paintings by the girl are hung
around the den.
Her mother uses it as the favorite
of my wrongs.
She paints bears and she is a rising
Mars. The mother brown bear ate spoiled food we had.
We left that food out in saran wrap.
I am unwrapping in the layers of mist
unrolling in the folds of rayon.
The girl's mother hated that sarong
that people on the lake gave
to the young artist before the lake died. And no one
denies giving her the sarong
and her paintings of bears and of sarongs
are with her at the opening at the Lake Arts tonight...
Categories:
rayon, passionmother, food, mother,
Form: Elegy