Pears in a bowl wait,
their ripeness never deepens,
stillness draws the reigns—
afternoons remain hanging
in frames long out of season.
Along hallways drift
faces caught before knowing
what years would make them
when they smiled to dickie birds
that swore not to recall them.
The house walks past them,
growing older in their gaze—
Silence keeps still lives
frozen in face memories
that yet never break the glass.
I woke at 8:45
Stretched and yawned
Smiled. All gaiety.
Potty first. Face splashed
Skipped teeth, shower, hair
Pajamas wrinkled
week-long underwear
Rushed down the steps
Threw open the fridge—
Friday’s meatloaf, cold brick.
Just Me & Capt’n Crunch—
sugar gravel
still in a Scooby-dish bowl
9am flipped on the boob-tube
Saturday morn cartoons
Mystery van
Spinach
Spiders
Anvils dropping
White cowl
Bull’s-eye dog
Sugar Sugar
Ah…Honey Honey
Daniel—
Cliff edge
The long fall.
I laughed until I wept, until I cried.
All gaiety—
gone.
The sweet milk gone warm.
Chirp.
Screen lit—
three little dots
then—
“You up yet Papa? XOXO”
The rose won’t pose, won't stay its will,
It knows it can’t be forced to stay still.
It sneaks movements between brush strokes,
Breaking free of the painter's staring yokes.
The lemon makes faces with bitter pride,
It hides its shyness with a snide slide.
Each subject plays a veiled charade,
As each freeze-frame is displayed.
The painter grabs what time would spill,
To capture one moment with all their skill.
Not knowing their aim can't be fulfilled.
For life is too fluid and free-willed.
Just after each moment is painted.
The scene is already old and outdated.
For nothing posed stays that way for long.
It shifts with each glance, and moves on.
i keep
a teacup with a cracked rim—
it doesn’t hold warmth for long
but i drink from it anyway.
the hallway light flickers
like it’s unsure
if it wants to stay on.
some nights,
i understand.
there’s a coat in the closet
that no one wears,
but i leave it hanging.
the walls don’t echo
when i speak softly.
so i don’t.
not anymore.
i fold myself into
the quiet corners of things—
pillows, playlists,
people who ask how i’m doing
but not why.
Is it still life? Her Quest for Identity.
Tis' stilled life
This still life
Distilled wife
Still - That's life
Mime wife.
"Playing dumb while acting the role."
The unspoken influence of mothers on their daughters.
My mother in her work environment, and my mother at home were two completely "different" personalities. At work, I saw her happy and bubbly, extrovert, chatty, friends with many.
At home she was subdued, walked on eggshells, kept us quiet while my father was at home. I understood: better to keep quiet, than be beaten. I'm breaking my silence, not hers. :))
Aqua Marine: 4th April 2025.
STILL LIFE
breakfast
pieces
ABSTRACT STILL LIFE
reprise
disguised
Turning my orange days grey, that’s what you do.
Flicking my sun over to a moon, like in a child’s picture.
And you make it cold. I need a blanket made of foil.
like the stuff you’d wear around your head.
Because you must be signalling other planets.
Because you can’t handle things.
You take my sun, stars and whole galaxy.
Because you need love so you engulf my all.
While I’m sitting here in a kitchen of still life.
In a fruit bowl, in a glass bowl. My orange greyed with you by my side.
a
disguised symbolism
in
an
immersive
conception
enveloped &
surrounded
with
imagery
of the commonplace
revealed
by
stimulations
of
the mind
an
illumination
becomes
a
momento
of
hypereality
Give me a dawn stilled by mist,
a gray haze unrisen.
The shimmer of nocturnal lamps
held high.
A time for tree magic; a quite majesty,
all growth halted, transpiring not,
but held within a mystical abeyance.
A pause on the lip of light,
when woodland dreams
are hung from trailing moss,
or a dew drop drip,
from spider webs of translucency -
a fairytale time,
when a walker's warm breath
is the only path,
through the stillness of self.
Still life nature mortista
an immersive
conception
enveloped &
surrounded
with
imagery
of the commonplace
a
disguised symbolism
in a cloak
of
interpretations
appearances
of
time
standing
still
arrested
moments
revealed
by
stimulations
of
the mind
illuminations
of
past
yesterdays
becoming
todays
postponed
memory
&
lives
again
a
momento
mori
in hypereality
of
sentient
touchstones
in
memorials
of perception
aesthetic
sublimations
of
spontaneity
in
fascinating
expectations
a visual
genesis
of
animation
once distant
now
alive
once more
to past
existence
from
shadows
of
genesis
Self-Portrait 1-12-24
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Still Life with Cheeses, Almonds and Pretzels
Still life, not stillborn,
With a woman’s face
In dusky background hues,
Pure clarity clothed in white,
Gazing on gastronomic abundance.
Artist of the banquet
One step behind –
The woman’s place of her time -
Guardian of the sweet rewards
Served like bridal wine,
Topping the earthen vessel
Of embryonic fermentation.
In a cradle of fine delft
Consummated almonds,
Mellow figs
Ripe fruit
Conceived out of ravenous rapture
Confinement released in harvest’s fare
In signatures of arms crossed -
Daily bread – gifts of finest wheat –
Served with golden curls,
Crushed seeds of grain
Birthing beauty’s fullness.
Above this feast of still life
A woman smiles
Her signature waiting to be discovered –
Waiting for the invitation to emerge
From the shadow!
A rose blooms under a painter's hand.
He adds some pleasing dew, light and shade.
Sits back satisfied.
He notices a single rose in its vase
(his wife had set it upon the studio table),
it is withering. the water stagnant,
it smells, even more than the odor
of oil on canvas.
Grumbling, he throws the flower away.
He should have painted it.
cool crisp fall morning
small black dog sits besides boy
paw upon his lap
"still life"
on an un
steady
easel
stands
a stretched
memory of
canvas
that can't
hold its in
tended so
left
blank
right as
it was
for all
time with
out any
painted
makeup
making
you
a
painter's
master
piece
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