Art & Words 2020




The power of one form of art over another fascinates me. Many art forms — visual arts, literary arts, music — carry the influence of those that came before and it’s always exciting for me to discover the little pieces of one artist informing another. 


For this exhibition, I invited a few visual artists and poets with whom I have worked in the hopes that their art would inspire one another to create. The artists and poets were given the opportunity to submit existing art and poetry. The art was sent to poets and poetry sent to the artists who selected poems or pieces of art that spoke to them from the submitted work.  Participants were then asked to create a new piece of art—be it a visual art piece or poem—based on the original inspiration. All of the artists and poets that are participating in Art & Words rely heavily on visuals and I knew that pairing their art form with another would be successful. I wasn’t disappointed. Art & Words holds something for everyone in both visual and written forms.


I wish to personally thank the those that came together to make Art & Words one of my favorite exhibitions, and to those artists who brought my own poetry to life and to another level. I have been told by many artists and poets that they were challenged and that the project was a great creative reward. Please view the exhibition and spend some

time looking deep into both the poetry and artwork to see the connections made between the artists and poets. Hopefully you too will discover your own connections. 


Robert P. Langdon, Curator

April 2020




(click on image for more information and to purchase)







Tina Piccolo

Poet In Ruins

Collage and oil on cradled wood

16" x 16"

Inspired by the poem Poet In Ruins



Jack Braunlein

Poet In Ruins (2020)

Acrylic on canvas on panel

12" x 12"

Inspired by the poem Poet In Ruins




Geta Badea

Il mio Giocondo

raw antique cotton, clear and white gesso, charcoal, pen, several types of gel medium
and liquid glass medium, clear oil sticks, oils, marouflage(d) on wood  cradled masonite panel

48" x 24.5"

Inspired by the poem Poet In Ruins


Painted on antique cotton weaved by my maternal grandma from cotton grown on their farm and weaved by her on a horizontal, manual loom built by grandpa. I remember, as a kid, her teaching me to weave on it for hours and hours and never get tired. I wish, I could bring that loom home, here but it probably was given away or even destroyed after their passing away. Both of my grandmas nowadays would have been hailed as great fabric and rug and tapestry weavers. Unfortunately, I never recognized their talent until I started painting! – Geta Badea




Poet In Ruins  


a tormented soul  

trapped in an ancient life,

as the world moves on,

tangled trees and vines,

allow themselves the liberty 

to overtake her home,

oppressive icy stone wall,

and weathered wrought iron,

panes freed of their

leaded windows,

doors rusted open

like her pained heart,

she writes effortlessly

in the old style,

with a sharp feather,

and liquid as dark

as her scars


– © Michelle DeCicco





Geta Badea

La mia Gioconda — The Vain One

raw cotton, acrylics, watercolors, gesso, gel mediums, silver and shining reflecting mediums, charcoal, Stabilo pencils, oil sticks marouflage(d) on Masonite panel and wood cradles

51" x 26.5"

Inspired by the poem Vanity






They found you sprawled across the bathroom floor.

Your wrinkled face brushing smooth tile.

You didn’t have time to put on your wig.

It was on your nightstand lovingly placed

atop the styrofoam stand-in awaiting tease and spray.


Did you forget about your appointment that morning?

If you had remembered, would you have kept your wig on,

wrapped it in toilet paper and slept on your back

with your hands folded over your bosom so your elbows

would keep you from rolling over onto your stomach?


If you had known, would you have made yourself pretty

to be made prettier the way you did before visiting the beauty parlor?

Applied mascara to your brittle lashes so that each time your gay

hairdresser flirted, they would appear strong and supple

when you batted them? Outlined your lips above their sagging crowns

and colored between the lines with the red of desire?


If you had known about your appointment today,

would you have put your life in order like the nail polish organized

by shade? Spent your last hours with your children and their children

offering one lasting hug and ‘I love you’?

Or would you have mixed yourself a Tom Collins and spent that time

looking into the mirror, fussing over yourself, and getting ready?


— © Robert P Langdon





Ann Morris

Proof (2020)

Paper collage and acrylic on board

12" x 12"


Inspired the poem The Hidden Sex



The Hidden Sex



Hidden children, girls,

Innocence tower bound in their youth.

But, in their adolescence, 

secretly practicing

Sun and Moon Goddess worship 

Hands flung up

In close proximity 

Creating spider web constellations

Mixing magic and menstruation

Sensuously in thrall with their own bodies

Growing the parts of them they could signal with.


Hair equals lust equals sin equals freedom


Princess or peasant the story starts the same


She was sin-sational slipping

Behind gauzy panels at the narrowest window


Vocalizations of honey and musk

Lead to blinded eyes and

Dresses that need to be loosened

 Saule freed by the Zodiac,

Left Scorpio crimson coloring the scene with lustful eyes 

sledge swinging.

Rudaba lowered dark hair chains

Proposing Confidante chaperoned conversations

awakened love and defiance.

Petrosinella, proficient with poppies

Gold ladder beckoning

Repeatedly romancing the besotted prince


Someone is craving

Someone commits a crime

someone is sacrificed

the innocent are punished

someone is found

someone escapes

someone is left,

and there is a joining.


– © Natalie Boburka, 2020





Yvonne Rojas-Cowan

Catrina Selfie (2019)

Acrylic on canvas

12" x 12"

Inspired the poem Behind the Camera



Behind the Camera


When we were hearts

Our hearts were flowers

Dark Charged ribs

Encased such power


Priestess cool assessing gaze

Deity lost no offerings claimed

Smugly crowns her head raised

Hair spun wild coils inflamed.


Bird whisper shoulder and color glazed

Grows a garden and hides her pain

tattooed skin cloak pattern blazed

Camouflage magic and pretends she’s tamed.


– © Natalie Boburka, 2020






Yvonne Rojas-Cowan

Lost In the Colors of My Soul (2020)

Acrylic on canvas

20" x 19"

Inspired by the poem Come





I’ve travelled through the shades of red —

the pink of birth and the blush of adolescence.

The candy of passion, the rose of love

and the scarlet stench of loss.


I’ve swayed with the blues all of my life —

the electric coolness of cobalt. The back and forth

mania of indigo calming itself down to an azure

and finally finding peace in the tranquility of periwinkle.


The yellows have always energized me — 

they feed me the sun and keep me smiling. I have gone

one on one with butterscotch but can sometimes be a whole 

grain mustard. I am part sour lemon part sappy honey. But all golden. 


The greens have always been a challenge — I’ve protested 

the army and hunters. Chopped the basils and mints. 

My toes have been tickled by moss and my senses

titillated by chartreuse. The greens have been friend and foe. 


But these days the colors are beginning to blend and create new hues. 

My footprints have oxidized into a mixture of vibrancy and grey. 

Darker patches streaking and stroking beckon me to come. 

But they took that away from me. I can’t anymore. 



— © Robert P. Langdon





Yvette Lewis

Memory of Singing (2020)

Acrylic on paper

20" x 13"

Inspired by the poem Clio's Song: A Prayer



Clioʼs Song: A Prayer 


Come in you weary traveler and rest your mind awhile

Your offering is sweet and tender though 

Born through a weary mile, 

And I can restore your memory to things long lost in time,

And I will have you inscribe your thoughts in fine and measured line, 

Then I will restring your lyre for you and tune to an ancient mode,

So you could sing your song for me before you head out on your road. 

Much later in your travels, when Time and Road run out,

And you come back to me with your mind in clouds of doubt,

Then I will reveal the memory from those who have gone before

That shines yet bright and brilliant and will forever more.

And it will be a beacon to you still when your time and space upend For 

the road goes on forever and the journey never ends. 


— © Jack Braunlein




Loel Barr

Lemons (2020)

Digital photography

11" x 14"

Inspired by the poem Thoughts On Lemons As Mother Reads the New Yorker
And the Cancer Is Still Only a Single Cell in Her Lungs



Thoughts on Lemons as Mother Reads the New Yorker

And the Cancer Is Still Only a Single Cell in Her Lung


Lemons sliced thin beside the penguin

ice bucket, Cinzano Vermouth, Gordon’s 

Dry Gin. Slice me a lemon, Dear?

Mother’s hand raised as I hold the lemon

perfect in the palm of mine, rolling.

The evergreen orange citron mix


elliptic protruding nipple apex. Stacked 

in yellow grocery bins trucked in from 

Arizona, rows soaking heat on waxy 

leaves, thorned, spreading. Faintly pitted, 

slightly ribbed fine-grained tender sunken 

oil glands’ secret skin, bitter pith hidden 


beneath. How could we know? Juice soaked 

sections, flesh encased inside, yellow 

radiating segments in a crystal dish. How 

could we even ask? Returning with 

Crusaders from Palestine, golden seeds 

on Spanish sailing ships, have you watched 


us these two thousand years your true home 

unknown? They withhold water until you wilt, 

then surge it through to induce a second bloom.

Can you hear the earthworms in silt and loam?

Do you fear crinkly leaf, heart rot, purple scab, 

twist of witherlip, wild rabbits. What begins in 


the universe of a singe cell, crooked atoms 

that spin into endless black space? (I am 

sometimes that little.) I sink my serrated 

knife into feathery flesh pockets pitted 

in the smudged shine. Fragrant glands burst  

pungent, as Mother lights up another Lucky.


(Do you fear the smallest things?)


— © Anique Sara Taylor




Natalie Boburka

Dreaming of Lilith


38" x 18" x 16"

Inspired by the poem The Voice of Lilith



The Voice of Lilith


They teach you to fold linen napkins.

Place each one between salad and dinner 

plate. Seat male next to female to male.

Spoon mousse into fluted crystal.

Press your father’s shirts, yoke first. 

Then seam. Button facing. Cuff. 

Match socks, warm from the dryer,

as if that is all there is.


They warn you of my needle talons 

to kidnap children in the night.

To a place of thorns, thistles, nettles,

Owl shadows, where night birds gather 

and no one has ever been so alone.


You sleep to the symphony of tree frogs,

from the swamp behind your house 

as cocktail voices merge into midnights.

You race down dream hills into the wind,

to fly above broken branches as I whisper 

into the solar system of your cells.


In the unfolded morning your shy mouth 

sewn shut, your thirsty heart tries to 

remember. They try to convince you 

I don’t exist, afraid they will discover —

Each night, as the edge of suburban surface 

fades and dark matter begins to form,

you pray for me to carry you away.


— © Anique Sara Taylor





Josepha Gutelius

Green Thumb (2020)

Acrylic on canvas

16" x 20"

Inspired by the poem Eden





This time 

She was all thought and no action

Theoretically her faith in an actively

Peaceful Planet

had taken enough hits to be 

           spit out by now

Just a spreading stain on the pavement.

She began to look intently

for signs

of Spring

She could seal the deal 

by feasting on bursting dandelions

and surreal daffodil visions

Spot an eagle and she could

last for a week.

If things got really bad

she could always


Naked and Serpentless

in the Garden.


— © Natalie Boburka




Josepha Gutelius

Blinded By the Light (2020)

Acrylic on canvas

16" x 20"

Inspired by the poem Blinded By the Light




Ellen McKay

Take My Hand (2020)

Acrylic on cradled panel

16" x 16"

Inspired by the poem Blinded By the Light



Blinded By the Light


Hold my hand 

and we will make it through this world

of vivid colors

shadowed eyes 

and caterpillar lashes.


This world that they want 

us to join

of questioning morals

renegade artists

and wastely ways.


Stick with me 

as we start our journey

but be aware. For they are out 

to hook you with their promises 

of democracy, freedom, and bikinis. 


Keep your feet grounded and face covered

and do not expose your self.

For we will finish this passage

that our forefathers foretold. 

And we will remain golden.


— © Robert P Langdon



Ellen McKay

New Map (2020)

Acrylic and charcoal on linen on cradled panel

20" x 24"

Inspired the poem 



New Map: Haiku for Peggy Wright


My pathway tangled,

Then she gave me a new map. 

Look! The page is blank!


My map gone, destroyed.

Who guides by moon, stars, or heart? 

Blue angel flying!


Monday. Dogs baying. 

Stillness hangs over rooftops, 

There! Eagle in flight


Grey clouds move slowly

Wrapped in shrouds, a new burden, 

What a gorgeous day!


Red maple outside

Today, bright, sunny, flaming, 

I am a willow.


Shadows on my wall

She told me about the cave, 

What’s that behind me?


If he is not here

How can I kill the Buddha? 

Children are laughing.


— © Jack Braunlein





Jack Braunlein

Within the Sky Earth (2020)

Acrylic on paper

10.5" x 14.5"

Inspired the poem 



Sky Within Earth



I am inside the earth. Am I buried? Am I covered by sack-cloth dirt, a mud-shroud

of my own making? I look up, openings give onto sky, clear blue, pale as a sigh,

a sigh of relief to see the outer world now made of Ether. Ether of my own making?

I could rise up from my grave and be counted among those who hear the call---to be 

churned into peaks by strong hands, hands that pound me, thwack me down on the 

table, roll me out flat, roll me up into coils, fold me, knead me pound me again until

I am solid, nary an air bubble left. So I won’t explode. It’s not over yet. Large hands of 

my own making? Now what? I’m a mound of clay spinning on the wheel, deft fingers 

pull me up little by little slippery slick coaxing my form, rounding my belly, narrowing 

my neck, broadening my mouth. A gasp of surprise. Now I have curved walls, an inside. 

I slide into the kiln, stand up in the heat as the fires rage. Fires of my own making? It’s 

not over yet. I glow red in the blast. On and on and I am white hot, then pink. Now I 

am cooling down. I can hold water. I can hold grain, flowers. What do you mean, 

“there’s more”!? I thought I was done. A sigh of pleasure as the glazes flow cool over 

my body. I am splashed, splattered, painted. At eight-hundred celsius flames dress me 

in glass garments. I emerge, radiant, my drips hold depths, like water running down my 

sides --waters of my own making? Called, I came to wear green and cream and yellow, 

Sancai colors with small spaces left bare. Am I ready to accompany the living in their 

daily ceremonies, honor the dead, buried with them— be a gift, bequeathed, lost, 

remembered, unearthed, cherished? Have I become a real vessel? The water is cold; 

the peonies, fragrant.


— © Ellen McKay



Ken Tannenbaum

Single Wide With View (2019)


21" x 17"

Inspired the poem crushed trust




crushed trust 


the twinkle in your eyes

captured my heart

the words you whispered

spoke of my reveries

you promised me everything

i was blinded

i didn’t see

you mesmerized me into your dream


there was writing

on the walls

i couldn’t read

you wrapped me up 

so very tightly

into your scheme 



that never materialized 


falsehoods disguised


you spoke of homes

and gardens

and me dripping in jewels

lots of kids in our yard

2 dogs, a cat and a bird

and for my quiet place

a she shed out back


the plans

for vacations

that never occurred

and when inquired 

you claimed 

me a shrew 




gave up

but you

with that twinkle in your eyes



a surprise 


pack your belongings

we move on the morrow


we drove

we drove

we drove for a week


far from a city

suburb or town

passing through 

small villages 

and many bare plots



a castle 

high on some hill


a crystal-clear lake


rather than


ending here

his secret dream

in a trailer 

with a view


— © gwynneth green



Loel Barr

Flea (2020)

Oil on canvas

11" x 14"

Inspired the poem Mable







I need you to 

scout out

the other tables


what are they vending

is their stuff 

as good as ours

do they have a complete set

of Corningware 

do the dishes have chips

what prices are on the tags and slips



you need to be


put on the red wig

big hat and sunglasses

lower your voice

when you ask about

the cut-glass

don’t be surprised

if they question your knowledge 

sound confused

that shouldn’t be

hard for you



my dear


return as a stranger

and please be alert

when someone asks me 

about a porcelain figurine

try to haggle a bit

so they compete 

don’t fight too hard

we want them to win

going home

treasure in hand

with a snicker and grin



my sweetheart Mable


this is your chance

to show what you’ve got

gather the intel 

so we can leave

with cash in 

our tin box


— © gwynneth green





Loel Barr

Twin Peaks (2020)

Oil on canvas

11" x 14"

Inspired the poem Meet Me in the Cave of Your Heart




Meet Me In The Cave of Your Heart


The gentle green of it will do us good.

The watery view will calm us.


It's hard to tell if the light-lit river is circling

in or flowing out, and does not matter.


My heart, too, will be there, listening

to yours in the dark.


Purple shadows, lingering on edges 

of the visible light, will intrigue us.


Protected from the reach of tyrants 

who have no caverns of their own in which to rest,


we will be able to hear your lungs

drawing in the good, clean air.


My lungs, too, will hold 

the volume tight before

we let out quiet song

into the shape of a swirl.


— © Ana C H Silva






Ann Morris

Ticket Updated (2020)

Paper collage and acrylic on board

12" x 12"

Inspired by the poem Ticket Updated






Will Nixon

Ticket Updated



inspired by the poem Ticket Updated



Ticket Updated


shriven universe of feeble rhapsody,

as countrymen stomp from themselves.




in grape.


lurk? sip?

a thief caper?

by abdomen, 

its aeronautic waistline

was indissoluble--

whereon the arching

brewery out-hooched me. 


a crappie,

a cramp.

any deacons are a neck,

rerouting was astral.


— © Loel Barr






Will Nixon




inspired a poem by Michelle DeCicco


Hi, can we talk?

 we don’t have much time!

 sit down and listen, you haven’t taken

 Mother Earth seriously, so I’ve stepped in

 everyone has to be

 on the same page

 you all will listen to me

 during this new age

 no more destroying trees, in any rainforest

 no more dumping anything, in any body of water

 no more littering anywhere

 every government has to behave, only do good for our         

   Earth,  support the hemp and bamboo companies

 support the ocean cleaning companies

 everyone only uses renewable energies

 no new pipelines and no more wars!

 everyone must heed

 these laws put forth

 the words of this creed

 comes from the north

 no one shall defy the ancients

 or I will lose my patience

 we all must work as one

 or our Earth will be un-done


– © Michelle DeCicco




Loel Barr

Fly Away

Digital painting

11" x 14"

inspired by the poem When I Had It Made




Marjorie Magid

Boy On a Roof

Acrylic on canvas

22" x 28"

inspired by the poem When I Had It Made



When I Had It Made


I had loose teeth that became nickels

under my pillow, a wooden trunk filled 

with plastic pirate gear, and a black eye patch

my mother wouldn't let me wear 

to second grade. I trapped crickets

in jelly jars and fed them grass blades,

until they died and joined 

my collection of dried star fish, rocket stamps,

and Canadian pennies. I practiced lassoing

with the laundry line and almost caught

the squirrel my mother hated for running

in the roof gutters whenever 

she tried to nap. One day I crawled

out from my window and climbed

the sandpapery roof shingles 

to the crest of the house,

where I sat practicing for an unsaddled horse, 

and saw things I'd never seen before:

the daisy window for the neighbor's attic

filled with lamps; the green hills

hunched like ants along the horizon,

where I bet some Indians still lived.

When the paper boy came, he didn't see me spying

and didn't know a black lab was racing 

around the corner after his pants.

When Dad walked home, whistling

and swinging his briefcase, he didn't see me

almost as high as the crows. 

He carried his gin-and-tonic onto the patio,

opened the newspaper to the little league scores,

and told my mother in the kitchen

the next library lecture was about robins.

When I grew up, I decided, I would be an angel

who watched people like this all day.

I saw the first star at the end of the blue sky

and didn't come down,

until the sunset

put the smallest clouds to sleep.


— ©  Will Nixon





Marjorie Magid

I Dreamt They Were My Friends

Acrylic on canvas

24" x 18"

inspired the poem When I Dreamt It



i dreamt it


was it so long ago

that we 4

would party 

on the floor

we swore 

to forever friends


we were 10


one lanky

one flighty

one rather small

and i in the middle

of you all


never imagining

age changes everything


some girls become bitches

others turn into witches

best are the princesses 

who might not always be right 

but never wrong

the artist of course 

painting them as sweet innocents 


blinded and bonded by friendship 

unable to recollect

at all

those traits 

in we 4 


never imagining

time changes everything




kids or not

spits and spats

jealousies and rages

texting and chats

physiques changing

minds forget

unwillingness to accept 



believing this a dream


i dreamt they were my friends 


— © gwynneth green




Theresa Landi Daniel

...No Time For Talking

Mixed media and handmade paper


inspired the poems




Discourse without Words


I time my breathing

  to inhale your warm exhale.

It smells earthy, soft and reliable,

  and warm, so warm.


You breathe out...and I 

  breathe in.

I sigh, and sometimes smile.

This is the most affectionate

  you ever are -

Breathing, evenly and fragrantly,

  while you sleep, 

And not minding that I am there

  because you are unaware.


This letting out and taking in by turns

  is our quiet-time conversation, 

  measured and calm,

  first you…, then me….

You do not know my face is so close,

  and I will never tell you….

We are still in love in the middle of the night

  because I will it so.


And because nothing short of

  “death do us part”

  will interfere in this exchange

  of shared breath.


— © Theresa Landi Daniel






No Time for Talking


you called

i didn’t pick up


you left a voice message


hey sweetie

it seems like forever

i know we talked yesterday 

but so much more to say

give me a call 

when you have a few minutes

talk to you later

bye bye


you sent a text


just called


i didn’t respond


next was an e-mail


need to talk

please call as soon as you can


that went to spam


you sent a message

via facebook


you’re on FB right now

i see the green dot

by your name

been leaving messages

all over the place

what’s up

you ok

please answer

i have lots to say


i turned off the computer

the ipad and phone


hoping the message 

would get through


— © gwynneth green








Shelley Davis


Mixed media on canvas

16" diameter

inspired the poems Ancestors






centuries and decades

pass through us

threads linking our

souls and hearts

bound forever

to our ancestors

fitting together

in the most surprising of ways

like a patchwork quilt

linking our dreams

our ancestors

leaving us with messages

from their knowing

giving us guidance

to a greater understanding

learning from our past

ancestors linking our


forever bound

heart and soul


– © Michelle DiCicco








A group of wraithlike figures, 

some single, some in groups

drift in the sky

among spherical shapes

of sun and a clock, 

seemingly timeless, although 

the women in cloche hats,

the men in ‘bathing costumes’ below

could be our ancestors, just as

the ghostlike figures in the sky

could be both theirs and ours.

How strange and sad: we know

our ancestors only 

from their letters and portraits, 

and admire them as

‘eminences grises', grey eminences,

though we can’t know 

their deepest thoughts and feelings

as they can’t know

even of our existence, beyond

two generations ahead

or three at most.

Did they try

to live like the Iroquois

and have “always in view…

the coming generations?”

If so, those hopes 

were gutted by greed,

by the imagined need

for faster cars,

dishwashers, microwaves, 

plastics amassing,

choking the earth—

the 1920’s group depicted

seem relieved, freed from strictures 

 like cravats and corsets…and yet

do their tentative smiles

mask fears and doubts 

about the future, a longing 

to follow the Spirit Way 

of walking softly on the fragile earth?


— © Elizabeth Shafer




Shelley Davis

My Landscape

Mixed media on canvas

24" x 24"

inspired by the poem paint a poem



Jean Campbell

The Words Swirled (2020)

Oil on board

35" x 22"

inspired by the poem paint a poem



paint a poem


paint a poem

use colors

that fuse thoughts

creating shapes


a breathless affirmation


be bold

with your brush

daub with gold and green

crafting a hidden meaning

that tugs at one’s heart


be fearless





your creativity

on the canvas 

let your imagination soar

with fine lines

surprise the art lovers

surprise yourself


don’t let your mind be confused

let the muse


the vibrant missive 



paint me a poem


— © gwynneth green







Andrea Geller

Reynisfjara (2020)


12" x 16"

inspired the poem Reynisfjara





low lying clouds set against

jagged sea cliffs, offers a

foreboding feeling,

poised with much strength,

against thundering winds,

the determined traveler

trudges, heading towards the

colossal rock formations,

sloshing through black sand,

do not trust yourself, your senses,

to turn away from these

unforgiving waves, soaring Atlantic

sprays are seen smashing into

ancient monoliths, intense

deafening surf devours the

dark beach, as the monster

waves recede only

shadows remain


– © Michelle DeCicco







Andrea Geller

Feel the Waves (2020)


12" x 16"

inspired by the poem Vibrations





jd weiss

becoming the waves

Medium format photography — archival pigment print on panel

20" x 20"

inspired by the poem Vibrations





rolling in

foam,   gathering

at the crests,

white merging

the blues,   and greens

spreading out pounding,

as it greets the shore

rolling,   salt

rocking shells,

sand pulling back

close,  your eyes

feel the waves


— © Michelle DeCicco





jd weiss

beyond the field 

Medium format photography — archival pigment print on panel

20" x 20"

inspired by the poem Beyond Ideas




Beyond Ideas   


We come whirling like a dervish out of nothing   

There is a field beyond ideas, 

I'll meet you there   

As we walk in 

Love the lotus falls before us   

There is a field beyond ideas, 

I'll meet you there   

I'll meet you there... 


— © Ad Augeri    







jd weiss

The Long Wait 

Medium format photography — archival pigment print on panel

20" x 20"

inspired the poems The Long Wait and devoted



The Long Wait


  when will she return?

   my heart aches till I 

        see her again,

  I’m so hungry and cold,

  remembering when she

       brought me home,

   she held me in her arms,

I was always jumping, to give

    her licks on her wrinkled,

           face and hands,

   she always gave me hugs

           and belly rubs,

     loved sitting next to her,

       when she watched tv,

    never pulled her when we

    walked together, except to 

     protect her from squirrels,

    always gave her my fullest

       attention while she ate,

     always made sure she was

        warm when she slept,

wondering where those people took her,

               I’m so cold,

              she needs me


– © Michelle DeCicco









she waited

for what seemed like years


she waited



without contempt


she waited


for the phone to ring

it rarely did


she waited


for flowers to come

they seldom did


she waited

for loving words 

they never were said



she lost herself

in another’s life

with blinders

tied tight

she couldn’t see left or right


she waited 

to be recognized 


she waited

to be saved


he who waited



saved her sanity



her weaknesses

he comforted her

with eagerness


a paw

a lick

of endearment




– © Gwynneth Green







Robert P Langdon

Hands Up

iPhone photography

12" x 12"

inspired the poem Hands Up





hands up


pay attention

here are the rules

1 your answer is your left hand up

2 you do not speak your answer is your left hand up

3 if yes is the answer raise your left hand


who understands

hey you

you in the back

do you understand

don’t nod your head

hand up if you do


i’ll start over

pay attention

here are the rules

1 your answer is your left hand up

2 you do not speak your answer is your left hand up

3 if yes is the answer raise your left hand

4 you do not nod your head your answer is your left hand up


who understands

hey you

you again

you in the back

do you understand

don’t shrug your shoulders


one more time

pay attention

here are the rules

1 your answer is your left hand up

2 you do not speak your answer is your left hand up

3 if yes is the answer raise your left hand

4 you do not nod your head your answer is your left hand up

5 you do not shrug your shoulders your answer is your left hand up


this is not a test

maybe it should be

if you can’t respond correctly

you will have to leave


are you an idiot


pause while waiting for a hand


are you an imbecile


pause while waiting for a hand


are you a moron


4 hands up


at least i know 4 are listening


are you a genius 


hey you

you again

you in the back

with your right hand up

stand up

state your name


say something to prove your status 


a cough

a clearing of the throat

a stammer

a mumble


my name …….Einstein


— © Gwynneth Green




Robert P Langdon

Curio Cabinet

iPhone photography

12" x 12"

inspired the poem Curio Cabinet



Curio Cabinet 


Light seeping through the dust,

particles floating dreamily,

the prayers of our forebearers

gathered in one place.


Pale porcelain dolls, 


Witness to a century of change,

are nestled among

examples of American ingenuity

gone silent.

Crockery that once clattered

on a busy table,

tongs to lift the logs

glowing to ash

as dinner cooked

on the hearth,

and the finest glassware,

proof of prosperity and education,

left, abandoned,

in the company of dust.


— © Jean Campbell



Curio Cabinet


It was a hot day in the summer of 68 and we were driving the back roads of South Jersey with the windows down and the hot humid air pouring all around us when this old house came into view and this sign out front said Antiques Collectibles Curios of all kinds and Nikki goes oh Joey stop it’ll be such fun so Joe pulls over and we all got out of the car but when we went inside things got strange because the windows were all down and there was no ac and it was stifling hot and there were these tables all set up with china plates and cups and figurines and all this junk that people must have thrown away years ago and I remember these clocks that were all ticking out of synch like they had been set at different times and there were these really strange dolls and manikins sitting and standing and staring at us with frozen expressions and unblinking eyes and then this old man came shuffling out with broken down slippers and a dirty strappy t-shirt and he says good to see you hope you’ll stay and he goes over to this old wind-up Victrola and put on a 78 and started singing along and looking at us and laughing and the old man kept changing records and the room seemed to get hotter and hotter and we’re milling around this place with the clocks and the china and the manikins and the heat and I guess I must have freaked out or something because next thing I remember is us running outa there and jumping into the car with lots of nervous laughter but as we were pulling out Nikki goes oh God Joey look and up there in an attic window staring at us was a human form a manikin of a young girl one hand raised up against a pane of glass and her eyes staring blindly at the road ahead.


— © Jack Braunlein







Lesley Bodzy

Infinity (2019)

Mixed media on aluminum panel

18" x 24"

inspired the poem Infinitude














your mind

wander limitlessly 



to boundless




an unrestricted place

where inspiration

is fed

by the unexpected


effortless flow

when letting go

becoming one

with the muse





                             colors blend

                         missives materialize

                         in an infinite union



— © Gwynneth Green





Lesley Bodzy

Sea (2019)

Acrylic on aluminum panel

12" x 12"

inspired the poem Sea





my footsteps sink in

   as I take them

towards the soft waves

  the vast sea foam

    shaded ocean

lifts my heart’s connection

    body slowly folds

      into the sand

   rolling into my being

the waves

 penetrate every sense

    smelling the salt

  increases my hunger

all awakens the core

        of my soul

 as I give myself

     freely to the 



– © Michelle DeCicco 






Lesley Bodzy

Mad Chemist (2020)

Acrylic on aluminum panel

12.75" x 12.75"

inspired by the poem Mad Chemist



Mad Chemist


In the basement I fought World War One in dirt trenches 

spread by trowel on the pool table. My metal soldiers 

survived firecrackers catapulted by spoons, dive bomb 

hand attacks by my little brother, earthquakes from our knees 

drumming under the table. My father stopped the war 

when Rex the cat began pooping in the dirt: “Your mother 

doesn't want you playing in bacteria.”


So I played mad chemist. I'd invent acid for burning 

open safes; freezing fluids for ants, worms, and girls toes. 

From brown bottles racked in my chemistry set, I mixed 

bad odors and slow fizzles, but nothing burned from matches 

dropped down blackened tubes. After my brother ratted, 

my father locked the set in his closet: “Your mother 

wants you to become a doctor, not a bomb maker. 

Think about eating breakfast with no fingers.”


I picked his closet with a paper clip and took my chemistry set

to the swamp with a bottle of Mountain Dew to mix my brother

a surprise. This formula would turn his hair blue, soften his teeth 

like rubber. I drank my half of the Mountain Dew, then his half, 

and held the bottle under slimy water, making it gurgle, until

a mucky head rose, a snapping turtle hooked like a claw.


My brother found the chemistry set in the swamp snow

rusty as an old can with spilled bottles of smelly ice. 

My father punished me with no television for polluting 

a wetland. He didn't know the secret of the snapping turtle:

sipping chemicals, glowing green, breathing fire.


— © Will Nixon





Josepha Gutelius

The American Poet (2020)

Acrylic on canvas

16" x 20"

Inspired by the poem An American Poet



An  American Poet



I envied her for her perfect poetry, but I envied her even more when she stopped 


writing.  She stopped, just like that. After getting the prize. Who does that? You’re a 


genius, I would tell her, being tormented is normal. I couldn’t imagine being her, such 


brilliance, such exhaustion, she could barely make it out of bed. Or another way she put 



          I wish I could squeeze the marshmallow out of the camel. 


          I would say, Stay in bed, or get out of bed, what’s the difference? She didn’t need 


to have a job, due to the prize. So she had all the time in the world to be silent. 


          She used to stay up all night, heard voices. The voices spoke in perfect poetry, 


she just needed to write fast.  


          She had an epiphany one night alone in her apartment, she told me, when she 


felt the Hand of Blake. And that was the night she stopped writing. What is the point of 


reaching five people in Tribeca, she said to me. She needed a stadium to preach to! So: 


she came up with a plan: she would start writing poems again, at least for a little while 


longer, and then write stories and then a novel and then write the definitive history of 


quantum biology as it relates to pre-Christian theology and she’d... etcetera etcetera 


etcetera etcetera etcetera.  




            She moved back to her hometown, got on disability, and defined herself as 


someone without a past and started a hedge fund. A success, by all accounts.  She 


dropped all contacts -- with me, with all her other friends. Now what I have is this, her 


last letter to me. 


        November 6, 1977


        (quote): I feel that I am now, well, I’ve now been given, bequeathed, this heady 


gift, what I live for, and in that state of eternal soft bubbling anxiety, that before I’ve 


known only when in the throes of love-longing, that gift is that I feel I’ll someday be able 


to write with the near mathematical accuracy of a musician -- an algebra of passion. But 


I sometimes have flashes of Ouspenskian paranoia that some external herd instinct will 


drag me down.



— © Josepha Gutelius





Josepha Gutelius

My life had stood a loaded gun

Acrylic on canvas

24" x 16"

Inspired the poem My Life had stood—a Loaded Gun—, by Emily Dickinson




“My Life had stood—a Loaded Gun—”, by Emily Dickinson


I am the woman

holding the hand

of the man

holding the gun.

I am the woman

holding the gun.

I am the gun

loaded, cocked,

ready to blast 

through the smiles, curtseys, 

niceties, hypocrisies

of which my life

has been composed.

Until now, as I hear

The words of powerful men

telling me who 

and how to love,

when and how 

to bear children

while the white light of rage

 flares in me. And I look

 down the long barrel 

of my gun and of time

and see a sister, a Senator

opposing a racist vote

 and another Senator, another 

powerful man, trying to silence her.

“Nevertheless, she persisted,” he sneers.

Yes, persisted and prevailed—

As her words and mine will live

through time—burning 

through lies— to truth.


— © Elizabeth Shafer





Meredith Morabito

They Call It Empathy

Clay sculpture

15" x 3" x 5"

inspired the poem An Empathic Figure


An Empathic Figure


she stood flat,
against the wall,
striving to support,
more than possible,
unwavering to her mission,
since her creation,
kind and understanding,
to all,
her alabaster body,
revealing her true self,
soul body mind,
sight unnecessary,
she feels their entireties,
pains joys maladies,
her giving heart
and soul,
glows from within,
and illuminates her,
body aura,
growing more,
to heal many.


— © Michelle DeCicco



Elaine Ralston

Shining Dark (2020)


17" x 14"

inspired by the poem Mnemosyne





Linda Lynton

Memories (2020)

Oil on canvas

Diptych: 16" x 12" (each canvas is 8" x 6")

inspired by the poem Mnemosyne





Soft loam, leaf dust, step by step,

Your feet sink into the forest ground,

Now that you’ve returned

To the land where you were born,

Familiar scents – pine needles, log-mold, moss-earth, 

The roof over your head

Is a native woods, a canopy of stars

Spilling late summer light,

A single cirrus cloud trails in the ink-blue sky,

White bird on a distant lake — an afterthought,

A smudge, a sidelong glance

On waters, heavy and silent, shining dark

As memory, I, Mnemosyne, Mother of the Muses, 

Would crown you with the light of

All the faces of those you love. 


— © Ellen McKay





Linda Lynton

Six canvases (2020)

Oil on canvas

4" x 4"

inspired by the poem You






Meadows lined with grass green   

Flowers paint a rare scene   

Shackles sawn asunder   

Lightning with her thunder   

Sunset sky purple hue   

Serene ocean dressed blue   

I thought this was beauty   

Then I saw You        


— © Ad Augeri     




Edward Berkise

I Think We See Things Differently (2020)

Collage, watercolor and marker

9.5" x 13"

inspired by the poem I Think We See Things Differently




I Think We See Things Differently 


I think we wade where

it’s wet and warm

where the pulse comes from


we feel rhythms from

a beating muscle under the heart

originations in compassion and conscience


I think they see things differently

I think they tread on

white boney structures

stripped of fleshy dreams


An empty cage heated by

the echoes

of remembered battles.


I think our heroes are different

Found in healing words,

sacred arts, endless 



I think they worship differently

Offering Prayers on battlefields, 

conference rooms, huddled in hidden places,

from towers in the sky. 


I think we need two words for 


Male and female don’t begin to cut it



— © Natalie Boburka





Edward Berkise

Tree In South Carolina (2020)

Watercolor and colored pencil

11" x 15"

inspired  In Memory of a Tree




In Memory of a Tree


Having just completed a long, grueling cattle drive the dirt-encrusted cowboys had been boisterously swigging whiskey shots, one after another. There was one exception to this bar hugging cluster, their point man, Juan. Short and wiry, thin as a stick, he was by far the more introverted one, who had spent the last months at the front of the cattle drive, regulating the direction and speed of the herd. Juan spent his workdays alone riding forward to their destination, with no other companionship other than that of his horse, at least until mealtimes. A human compass with an unerring sense of direction that never failed the others, he was an arrowhead that led the barreling mass of flesh onward. 


Instead of joining the others, Juan sat to the left of the disheveled piano man. Leaning sideways, he gulped a cool sarsaparilla, it clutched in his chapped, cracked fingers. Despite being nearly on top the battered instrument, he still could not discern the notes over the din of his rowdy companions. Frustrated and bone weary, there was no reason to stay in the saloon even one more moment. Taking a last swallow, he tucked his worn hat tighter against the autumnal breeze and walked out into dense, fresh moon darkness.


The large mare kicked up some dust as they rode from the Flay, just outside Fort Griffin, headed towards the Guadalupe mountain range. Juan was determined to return there, a location he had found several years past. In his memory it was a peaceful oasis, a private site. His intention was to fall into a satisfied slumber as a reward of the five months of hard labor. He planned to hunker down there a few days, and rest up before heading back to the pleasures of San Francisco.  The thought of unwinding in solitude had been his only goal.


Finding a secluded spot under a bluff, Juan fell asleep beneath a sturdy chinkapin oak that towered overhead, some fifty feet tall. His horse had been surprisingly uneasy so he gave into her whim and sheltered the animal a ways apart, closer to an outcrop of boulders.


He had determined the tree would offer protection from the elements. The sky held so many clouds it blocked even the dim light of the waxing moon. The gray clusters, crowded as they were, moved rapidly from the south; surely a storm was brewing. In Juan’s fatigue, he had fallen asleep oblivious to the soft, repeated drips that descended slowly but surely upon his worn Navaho blanket. The man jostled on dampened ground, in an unconscious stupor. In his uneasy dream that night, he had been fighting against a merciless flood as the sensation of wetness wormed its way upward. 


As the dawn broke through the night’s curtain, Juan’s eyes opened. Still relaxed, snuggled in his bedroll, his eyes drifted through the overhanging branches until they rested on a sight that that seared into him forever after. Within the embrace of the mighty oak was held the remains of a man, swinging mutely from a sturdy noose. Swaying in the morning breeze, it was as if the air itself sought to comfort the dead.  Throughout that night the man’s swollen body had been surrendering drops of human essence through the tears and rips of his mutilated humanity. 


Juan did not bother with his usual morning ritual of a cup of coffee. He disregarded his intention to rest a spell. Instead, he jumped on his still fidgety horse and rode hard until he was out of Texas, leaving the blood stained Navaho blanket and his cattle driving life behind. It was time to leave the past as far away as his nightmares would allow.


— © Lucinda Abra 




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Emerge Gallery & Art Space

228A Main Street, Saugerties, NY  (845) 247-7515

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