Tell Me a Story 2021

WRITERS WANTED: Tell Me a Story

Tell me a Story includes artworks that lead the viewer toward a narrative. Emerge Gallery welcomes and encourages creative writers to connect with a piece of art and create a written work inspired by it. Response writings are published on the gallery website. Join our virtual reading on November 7 to share your work.

Click here to view and purchase work from "Tell Me a Story"

A virtual tour and artists discussion is scheduled for Sunday, October 24, 2021, at 3 PM and a virtual reading is scheduled for Sunday, November 7, 2021, from 3-5 PM where writers may share the work written inspired by the art in Tell Me a Story. Both virtual events will be broadcast live on the Emerge Gallery YouTube channel.

Eighty works of art are included in the exhibition — fifty being exhibited at the gallery in Saugerties, NY, and an additional thirty exhibited exclusively on artsy.net. Beacon, NY, artist Theresa Gooby combines images from a past era with a current day twist. “The tendency to glorify the past so often overlooks all the things we’d rather forget,” explains the artist. “Do the pictures left over from the popular culture of the day tell the whole story or even part of it? It only takes a small change, one slight addition or tweak to an image to alter the conversation.”

Long Branch, NJ, artist Lou Storey’s Strike Out — from his portal series which takes the shape of Judeo-Christian altarpieces — speaks to the subject of war, while Joke Depositry, an addition piece exclusive to artsy.net, takes a look at humor through the Northern India tradition of Kawad — storytelling through a traveling temple. Woodstock, NY, printmaker Claudia Waruch’s silkscreen The Past Kimono is a written chronicle of the artist’s past. White lettering is printed on a dark background across a hanging 48” x 58” paper kimono. “The suggestion of readable text is significant to the aesthetic of the design,” said the artist. “I have approached these memoirs tongue in cheek, affording a few quotations from each decade of my life.”

Writers may be inspired by the vintage silver gelatin print of Halloween Parade, West Village, NYC, by Joan Barker. The photograph taken in the 1980s is of four gentlemen in drag dressed as flight attendants posing for the camera and a gleeful crowd. Or by Sleepy Hallow, NY, photographer Jeffrey Friedkin’s contemporary view of NYC where a wedding dress hangs from a balcony unnoticed as the city walks by. Writers are asked to submit the work created to emergegalleryny@gmail.com. Response writing will be published on the gallery website.

Additional artists include Lucinda Abra, Debbie Auer-Breithaupt, Harriet Forman Barrett, Christine Baum, Nanette Reynolds Beachner, Ed Berkise, Kristy Bishop, Arabella Colton, Shelley Davis, Nancy deFlon, Charles Dorr, Barbara Esmark, Stevenson Estime, John Folchi, Debra Friedkin, Andrea Geller, Denise Giardullo, Christine Graf, Susan Griffin, Josepha Gutelius, Annette Jaret, Stevan Jennis, Pam Krimsky, Veronica Lawlor, Ulf Loven, Linda Lynton, Marjorie Magid, Dorothea Marcus, Kate Masters, Elin Menzies, Dennis Moore, Ingrid Nichter, Will Nixon, Jacqueline Oster, Michael Palladino, Susan Phillips, Terry Preisner, Tad Richards, Marilynn Rowley, Rita Sherry, Margaret G. Still, Cindy Sumerano, Pamela Tucker, K Velis Turan, and jd weiss. Tell Me a Story is curated by Emerge Gallery director Robert Langdon.

RESPONSE WRITINGS TO TELL ME A STORY

Hari Das

(inspired by Lucinda Abra’s drawing Hari Das)

I found myself in a strange building with very little light. Gray scentless smog filled the environment. Nearby was kinetic mass of people. Mature men in suit and ties, aged women in baggy dresses, grandfathers, with long white beards, black Rasta’s, teenage boys in sports gear drifted aside youthful girls in shorts and t-shirts, young women in lovely dresses, some in hats, some people were naked, all different sizes, different ages, they walked clockwise, slowly, shuffling along, in a sizeable circle, taking no notice of anything other than their endless motion.

They strolled on grimy colorless linoleum that was rutted out from wear. No one spoke or sniffled, coughed, or made any noise at all. Their footsteps were made in dense silence. I uselessly tried to speak to some of them, but they lumbered along without reply.

Hari Das entered an open doorway. The yogi had chosen silence many years ago as a spiritual discipline. As he didn’t speak, he wore a chalkboard around his neck to communicate. His deep quiet and grounded center radiated from his presence.

Where he had entered was beaming light, shining brightly in the room, cutting through the dim, but none of the semi-transparent people turned to look. The ambient light disappeared as he shut the door behind him, leaving only the ashy murkiness.

With a wave of his fingers, he motioned for me to follow him after writing a short explanation on his board, “These people suicided.”

As I wondered why we were there, he opened another door into another smaller room, this one made of cement block. A single bare light bulb hung haphazardly from the ceiling. The floor was the same scratched and worn flooring. A sparse wood table and two aluminum chairs were in the middle of the space. Shockingly, there was my daughter’s father, Victor, sitting inside. His head rested on the table. His long arms covered his face. Looking up, he appeared quite forlorn. He was slowly disappearing, his beautiful bronzed skin already a thin and translucent.

Babaji motioned for me to enter the room, and then he left us, shutting the door behind him.

Victor’s brown eyes were filled with dismay.

“I’m dead.”

With a sense of resignation, I sat down at the opposite chair. My hand reached out as a comfort. For that brief moment, we touched for the first time in such a long time. His arm was as cold as marble. Looking up at me, he explained in painstaking detail how the last days of his life had ended.

Victor had been staying at a halfway house for the suicidal. There were weekends off for good behavior as long as he hid his true anguish from the staff.

Instead, he had made friends with them all. Told jokes to the nurses and therapists. Went along with the program, pretending to be in recovery. He was going to live his life right. Get clean and embrace life.

Sharing cigarettes with the part-time staff on the porch in the late afternoons and early evenings, he extolled on his mother’s virtues. They all knew that he had been faithfully going to her house for several weekends of good behavior leave to help with chores. He had taken the time attending to a few things for himself as well.

While he was lying to everyone else, Victor was busy making plans. He bought a shotgun and a set of large drapery rods. He tossed the rods themselves in a garbage can in the alley, one garbage receptacle form the halfway house but kept the box.

Determined, he hid the weapon in the overgrown bushes until everyone was asleep. Thereafter, while the residents and staff slumbered, he silently toiled along. The muzzle was too long, so with measured accuracy he tirelessly sawed off the end of it. During the nights, alone in his room at the suicide recovery house, he severed at his reality with American resolve.

Finally satisfied with his labors, he was even more chatty and upbeat, telling personal antidotes with the staff, sharing his future hopes and dreams in group sessions, talking cheerfully about the fourth step of the drug free program with the therapists, passing his urine tests with flying colors, and working the system he had learned so well from past years. Victor told everyone and anyone how much he was looking forward to the coming weekend. He was going home to help his mother hang new drapes.

The day arrived. Victor left early carrying his resolve. The temperature was already in the 80’s. Cool as a cucumber, despite the heavy overcoat he wore in the summer air, he even stopped to smoke a cigarette with a staff member on the porch. With the box of the loaded sawed-off shotgun nestled safely under his arm, he took the bus and then crossed over Jefferson Avenue to stroll into Belle Isle Park.

Once there, he walked around for hours on the nine hundred eighty-two acres. Soundmen were hauling amplifiers onto the Remick Band Shell as he walked past, wandering towards the water’s edge. Musicians had pulled up in their two vans full of equipment and instruments for the jazz concert scheduled later that day. Several canoes slid by as the man in the overcoat leaned over, collecting rocks along the shoreline.

While families were setting up picnics, throwing Frisbees, and barbecuing, sailboats from the Yacht club were pulling in and out of multiple docks. People threw pennies in the fountain and hoped their wishes would come true. Others swam in the Detroit River or lazily lounged on beach towels along the riverfront. A solitary man continued collecting large and medium-sized rocks.

When his overcoat pockets were overflowing, and there was no more room for even one more stone, he trudged in the oppressive heat back to the MacArthur Bridge, stopping midway between arches nine and ten. Victor figured that if anyone on either end of the long walkway noticed what he was up to, it would take a long few minutes to interfere. The long straight perspective back to the mainland reassured him; it was as though he was looking into eternity. He took his time, watching cloud formations float by as he rested against the hot steel railings. He opened the cardboard, placing one finger on the trigger as encouragement. A few cars drove by, but no one paid much mind to the man standing on the bridge leaning over the railing. Though he looked like he might be was holding something, the cars were moving too quickly, the people in them too distracted for anyone to notice the shotgun.

His body was found some minutes after the fatal shot that blew off the left side of his head. The rocks, intended to weigh him down as he tumbled over into the river, were of no use at all. He had anticipated that he would fall downward, over the railing into the deep water, but instead, his body simply slumped over as his knees buckled at the moment of the bullet’s impact. However, that was the only piece of his plan that didn’t work out perfectly. The gravity of the situation was just beginning to materialize.

Sitting at the card table, wringing his stone cold hands, he said I would be notified, as our child was next of kin. He told me he preferred cremation to burial.

Gesturing around the room, he said, “ I thought this would be better. But it looks like I will be having time now to sort things out.”

Babaji opened the door and motioned that our time was over.

I pushed aside the disturbing dream as a busy day progressed. I was attacking a long spider web, dust rag in hand when I received the late afternoon call from Detroit City Morgue informing me that Victor had died and asked what our daughter would like to do with the body, as next of kin.

Epione’s Daughter in “Babe Alone”

(inspired by Debbie Auer-Breithaupt’s painting “Hygeia”)

Mom told me not to play with snakes

Fear of God in her voice, tickling my ears

The words never scared me, like they did her

I hid the snake I found under a rock

Mom had me sleeping on pills and pillows

Hole in the Bushes, my dreams gave me to the forest

The stone lay under my head, when I awoke

I discovered the snake dancing in a circle

Mom stayed in houses at night

Moonlight showed me colors, impossible for the day time

The grass got up to dance, twisting like my newfound companion

I shed with the snake my past without it

Mom lived out her days for tomorrow

Heaven was taught to her by a distance, and a hurting

The smaller she made her heart, the less without the sickness she’d known

I followed the snake into a future uncertain

Mom kept her thoughts to herself

What I had heard through a day, would collect in my ear, until

The darkness of my soul, all that I didn’t know, slithered out

I played with the snake on a girl’s arms, going in circles

Mom knew pain was not fun

Our twin bodies wrestled, pulling eyes we crossed apart, weaving

The fate of healthy girls, taken so, so taken

We loved each other like lights strung up over man’s one true ornament

Mom lost her girl twice

Wandering the forest, trying with all her might to keep alert, hope waning

The one she thought she knew, the one she never could, both never to return

Two snakes were eventually caught, cut open, each with a half

All the while lies whispered

Speaking “your daughter lives”

Saying “I am your daughter

This is my husband, the snake”

Balancing Act – A Fine Line Between Reality and Imagination

(inspired by Kristy Bishop’s painting Kristy En Plein-Air)

The sun reflected on the water like a million diamonds as we entered the road leading to our camp on Cross Lake in northern Maine. Even the luxurious ride of a new Cadillac could not prevent motion sickness on the one hour trip from our homestead. “Stop” I would shout to my mother and into the ditch went my breakfast on that long lonely road.

That and blood suckers near the shore seemed to be the worst of it for a young kid. Did I mention the wharf? It was narrow and wobbled each time as I ventured onto it.

All was well with me, the young artist as my mom and grandmother called me. They were inside that day. My Dad sat on the landing of the staircase leading to the front door of the cabin.

I conquered going close to the end of the wharf. Generally, I looked for pearls in the open shells among rocks in the water. That day I was soaking up the beauty of nature as I viewed the buoyant blue water leading up to the gorgeous green trees on the opposite shore. The cumulus clouds appeared endless as my eyes moved upward.

Kah Splash! Suddenly I found myself struggling in deep water. I bobbed up and down gasping for breathe. My feet could not touch the stony bottom; yet, my lashing limbs finally connected with the wood of the wharf and I made my way to dry land.

As I cried, I could hear my Dad laughing. How could this be? He did not try to save me? My ever watchful maternal grandmother was not in sight.

Sometimes, artists paint to resolve current or past issues. This was the case during 2020, the lonely time of the pandemic. In the painting, “Kristy En-Plein Air,” I put my adult self on a wide and sturdy wharf to capture the beauty around me in paint. An imaginary apparition of my beloved “Grammy” stands at a distance with her watchful eyes.

When I was a baby, I traced the designs on her dress with my right index finger. She made my mother promise that she would get art lessons for me at a young age and she left Mom an inheritance to be sure of it in 1958. My mother studied the paintings that her cousins created in the early 1920’s. No one in my family imagined that I would not be called “an artist!”

Haiku Response to Clawfoot Tub, by Christine Baum:

no longer feeling

like an ugly duckling

after my bubble bath

JOY

(inspired by Shelley Davis’ painting Joy Theater Marquee)

A senior at my school said he could help me get to the U.S. It was my dream to study molecular physics at an American University, to help discover the glue that holds us all together within the play of molecules. But then he slid the amount due for my legal papers through his teeth, $15,000 US dollars. That’s 160,350,000 in Uzbekistani Som. He might as well have wanted a slice of the moon. I didn’t have that much money. Did anyone?

As we each sipped a thick Turkish coffee at our second meeting, he readily offered a solution to my woe. He pushed aside his thick hair from his forehead with a flick of his wrist. I hoped he was somehow a shaman with a power to send me to my goal. His words magically erased my heartbreak. All I had to do was work it off when I arrived. Easy, right?

I flew into the John F. Kennedy airport, escorted by two men from my country. They ushered me through customs and took my passport. The men explained this was the law to give my papers to the new employer. When I struggled against the strong hand that gripped too tight against my arm, afraid to enter the rear of a cargo van, nervous as a flushed quail, it took no minutes for them to shove me in. One locked his arms around me, more potent than rope, while the other gave me an injection. I fell into a deep slumber, which will last perpetually.

Both the proton and the electron, if left alone, will exist infinitely, because there is nothing lighter in mass for either of them to degenerate into. And now I am more lightweight than a feather and wholly insolated, both in spirit and mind, despite whatever degradations are performed upon my physical sheath.

I will never escape from this tiny room, where I lay, as docile as rubber. Radioactive now, atoms spin out of control as I passively exist, an antiparticle with zero charge. The weight of debt is all that remains of who I once was, human. Still, I turn my head and look through the road dusted pane glass window.

Across the street, there is a theater marquee that reads, “Joy.” Joyee. The word that starts out so buoyant, doesn’t it? An offering of the breath of life, only to end with a locked jaw and a silent scream.

Joy Theater Marquee

he named it JOY, for the abundant happiness, he hoped for his patrons, the unassuming little theater built with love and care, he chose yellow paint, for building and marquee, the shade of delight and sunshine, built it in 1920, to lift his neighborhood towards Joyous life, leaving behind, the last two years, George was the nicest guy, using hard earned savings to share his Joy, movies abundant, shown to all ages and affordable, Joy was always present, for many decades, passing through different hands, Joy, always open and giving

Joy Theater Marquee, 2021

after Shelly Davis

Joy! Oh, I’ll buy that ticket

anytime—matinee or midnight.

Joy! The marquee announces

in big, bright, bold, yellow letters.

And what I aim to buy

as I'm standing waiting under

this sign that promises

so much is a return

to the Golden Age of a one-house

theater with a baroque proscenium,

viable stage for a post-extravaganza,

movie in CinemaScope or VistaVision,

and so long there’ll be an Intermission

for concessions or relief. Most of all

this vintage sign promises a harkening

back to quiet, no-cell viewing.

Joy! Bring on the red-clad ushers

with no-nonsense flashlights like Hopper.

Joy! The newsreels, cartoons, serials,

the coming attractions without commercials.

Hang In There (Inspired by Nancy deFlon’s photograph, “Hang In There”)

they propped me for demise, encouraging my roots to lift away, from life giving earth, Why? I deserve to progress onward with life, in my home, I began this life, a seed, carried by lake and wind, placed gently on the shore, pulled into earth from a light shower and rooted well, over years grew stronger and taller, blooming in Springs and,sleeping with the chill of Winters, sharing my life with others, sad things have occurred to me as of late, broken roots, striving to dig deeper, other roots hanging onto dry earth, that has been worn down all around me, hanging on for life dear, not yet complete, not ready to give up and die, I refuse to fall over and become, something to be stepped over, Hanging On To Live!

About That Button

(inspired by Charles Dorr’s collage Button Up)

I have a story to tell. And it’s about a button.

My job as an insurance adjuster for art, antiques and collectibles sometimes brings me all over the world. I get on a plane, investigate the loss, make a report and fly back home. Most of the time, though, I work from my desk at the office.

One day, an unusual claim came into my office regarding a lost or stolen button. I had never had a claim for a button before, so I immediately opened the file to learn more about it.

The Museum of Zippers, Snaps and Buttons is located in a suburban mall near Helena, Montana. The museum doesn’t get many visitors these days, which is probably why they let their guard down and became lax in their security procedures.

Last week they discovered that a very rare and priceless button was missing from its display case. It was one of three buttons that had been part of Mark Twain’s overcoat - the middle button, which experts consider to be more valuable than any other button in any collection in the world. Twain wore this overcoat through three long and cold winters in Hartford, Connecticut, as he wrote some of his most famous stories.

In 1875 while strolling through town, a stray arrow came flying out of the sky heading straight for Twain’s back. Fortunately for him, at the last moment he turned around and the arrow struck the middle button of his overcoat and safely bounced away. His life had been saved by the button, which was now cracked but still in one piece, since it was made of sturdy whale bone which was popular in the day. Twain wanted to honor the button in his next book which was initially titled “The Adventures of Huckleberry Button”. His publisher balked at that and insisted that he change the boy’s last name.

The Twain Button, as it had come to be known, resided in the Mark Twain Boyhood Home until 1968, when it was donated to The Museum of Zippers, Snaps and Buttons. There it became the focal point of the museum, outshining all the other notions and sewing articles on display. All those who visited the museum specifically came to see the button, bypassing the museum’s other artifacts. So naturally, the museum directors assigned a very high value to this button, and filed an insurance claim for $1.75 million. An astounding amount of money for a button.

So at the first chance I got, I hopped a plane and flew to Helena to see The Museum of Zippers, Snaps and Buttons.

Upon entering the museum, I was greeted by the museum director and her nine year old daughter, Maggie. Mrs. Billings was cordial to me as I introduced myself as the insurance adjuster for the issue of the missing button. I told her I wanted to get more information so that we could close the case.

“What else is there to know?” asked Mrs. Billings. “The button is gone, that’s all. When will the claim be paid?”

“It’s not that simple, I’m afraid,” I said. “A claim for this amount of money needs to be examined closely. I need to find evidence that the button has been stolen or lost by some nefarious means. I’m sure you understand.”

“Understand?… yes. Like it?.. no,” Mrs. Billings retorted. She was becoming annoyed by me, and also by her daughter fidgeting by her side. So with a fake smile that belied her displeasure she said, “Maggie, go play with your dolls in the other room. Okay sweetie?” The daughter may have taken a moment too long, for Mrs. Billings then said, “Now Maggie! Skidoodle!”

Maggie ran off as Mrs. Billings walked me to the display case that had once housed the Twain Button. “It was there, and now it’s not,” she curtly explained as she pointed to the case. “That’s proof enough that it isn’t there.”

I knew I was wasting my breath trying to explain the workings of an insurance investigation. Either she just didn’t understand what I was saying, or she was pretending to not understand. I thought I should be quiet for a while. “May I look around, Mrs. Billings?” I asked as I looked at the other displays. “Perhaps there’s some clue as to where it went and how.”

“Yes, yes of course.” Then as the door to the museum opened, Mrs. Billings took leave of me to greet the new visitors. Thankfully, I was left alone to begin my investigation.

However, this “investigation” was merely a way to look busy, for I had no intention of approving the claim. But I didn’t want to tell this to Mrs. Billings just yet. So I poked around looking at the other displays, pretending to examine them for clues.

From the other room, the daughter Maggie could be heard talking to her dolls. It sounded like the sweet, imaginative play that children do, especially with dolls. The door was open, so I peeked in just to say '“Hi". That brought an angry retort from Mrs. Billings. “Don’t bother the child!” she barked.

I didn’t intend to bother her, but I realized that I should not have ventured into the private space of the museum. I apologized and then made one last turn to say goodbye to the girl, and she waved to me with her doll in hand .

That’s when I noticed the button.

Maggie’s doll was dressed in a gingham skirt with a white cotton blouse. There was a torn piece of material hanging loosely off the blouse, and it appeared to me that it had been crudely sewn together, as if by a child. And what’s more, right in the middle of the blouse was a cracked button. I would have bet right then and there that it was made of whale bone and had saved the life of America’s greatest satirist.

I don’t know if Mrs. Billings was pleased to have recovered the famous button, or if she was bitterly disappointed that she wasn’t going to collect the insurance money. Because as I left, she still had that fake smile that belied her displeasure.

Case solved.

Inspired by IN focus, by Charles Dorr

There was a young man from Parnassus

Who simply adored his field glasses.

He burnished them lightly

And focused them tightly

On legs, breasts and round little –

As we were walking one morning

I gave him a sound and stern warning

“Focus those things, sir,”

Away from my chest, sir

Or risk a swift knee to the –

Growin’ his travels improved him,

So distant it finally removed him.

Along mountain passes

He focused his glasses

‘til a Nubian Ibex be-hooved him

Open Carry (inspired by her painting Pulsei)

The classroom door is open.

Sweaters, yellow, red and blue

Form a color wheel of children,

spellbound

on the bright blue story-time rug.

Strobe lights flash. Open–

toed stilletos and leopard brogues

move in rhythm.

The dance line surges forward.

A young man calls over his shoulder,

"Save the last dance for me."

Two aisle seats are open.

Rows of glowing profiles

reflect exploding colors off the screen.

Fingers filled with popcorn, others

holding only someone’s hand

in the darkness.

The ancient ark is open.

Singers chant the Saturday Sh’ma in dove gray suits.

Ancient Ancient Ancient Ancient

Holy Holy Holy Holy

In the temple voices rise,

and then they fall.

Men in dark ties open

meetings called to order

at polished boardroom tables.

They set their sights

on politicians.

Deemed essential, gun shops open.

Record-breaking sales report across the land.

In the boardroom,

celebratory rounds

of whiskey shots.

A haiku response to “White Bread, 2021” by Stevenson Estime

a pat of butter

and a spoonful of sugar

makes Jack feel saucy

Inspired by “The Call,” by John Folchi; “Hung Out to Dry,” by Jeffry Friedkin; and “Man With Cross, Cinefuegos, Cuba,” by Dorothea Marcus

I was the only one who made the shot as the illusion door was still in motion.

As promised we’ve arrived at the Trompe l’oeil structure, the door barn red and the accidental guardian stationed just as described.

Some folks in the group sketched some took selfies, but not me…

I’ll always carry a high powered mounted lens and now, I had successfully recorded a yellow car (perhaps a taxi) just before the illusion door shut closed. Maybe it was just a shadow, but that was before the HP shows us a guy wearing a grey hoodie and clearly waving a vintage wedding dress still on it’s own hanger.

I’ll swear it today that tomorrow I’ll be feeling that same motion of the illusion door slowly closing.

We Were Masked Women Long Before the Plague

(inspired by Harriet Forman Barrett’s painting Generations of the Masks We Wear)

In my family, we have been masked women since before the Mistick Krewes of Mardi Gras dazzled New Orleans at the Old French Opera House. Their kings of the ball wore crowns and ruled their subjects, as my great-great grandmother learned in a backroom. She was a seamstress for a king with a royal appetite for cinnamon-colored girls, and before she could even scream he gagged her with a makeshift mask, fashioned from sackcloth. He had an edict: cover her face and pretend she’s your alabaster goddess, then cover up the baby with gossamer veils and send her off in a basket.

My great grandmother, when she was old enough to brush away the gossamer, made a mask of emeralds and plumes and snuck off to a ball. The mask hid so many truths she kept it for years, even after a smitten princeling tucked her away in an urban castle. When he came home she would paint herself with blue eyes and scarlet lips, let down golden hair that wasn’t really hers, wear a mask that knew nothing about loneliness.

My grandmother grew up when times were hard again. She ran away and joined a troop of mimes, never having to speak of history. In a whiteface mask and charcoal lips she would tell a story of rape and deception through gestures, leaps and silent howls.

My mother was born backstage, playing a dutiful child. One day she put on a golden mask and it became her guardian, bestowing her with a façade of rapture. Her life stories were those of a heroine: discoveries of treasure chests, adventures on antipodal shores, secret meetings debriefing presidents.

Who was my mother behind her mask of stories? A scourge I wished to clean away. I became a physician’s assistant, wearing masks that protected me from germs and shielded my patients from my legacy, long before we all learned that the world is deadly. Now I hide my soul behind fabrications that suit the mood: manic sunflowers or starry nights, dominatrix leather or virginal lace, lucky charms or zombie skulls.

If you were to take off your mask and I were to take off mine, we just might kiss. Then I could give you all the phantasmagorical tales you’ve ever wanted, all the deceptions you’ve ever needed, and you still wouldn’t know me.

Fertile Passings (inspired by Harriet Forman Barrett’s painting Fertile Passings)

I am known by many names, from ancient times to present day, I lie in a gilded catacomb, yet open to all of nature, in the heavens, with my energies surrounding Earth, nurturing it and all existing within, my forces forever moving forever changing

WorldWombWoman (inspired by Harriet Forman Barret’s painting Fertile Passings)

She is holding me and holding you

With teaming ocean, turquoise blue.

Her womb of life fresh as the dew

Quiet green, loud crimson too.

Heavy breast to nourish us

With goldenrod and hush of dusk.

She's praying now and deeply hums

The sweet lavender, lilac and plum.

Ochre, red and purple cloak

Teal, azul and silver smoke.

From her crown, tethered to source,

Leaping salmon, dripping moss.

A blush of gold upon her cheek,

And all life's creatures underneath.

Her story is right at the start

Inhale her image in the art

Of goddess, painter, birthing one

In herself our place called Home.

The Hobo Dreams Worlds, 2018

after Debra Friedkin

It was here on the tracks it happened,

somewhere between Saugerties and

Albany. I fell somewhere outside

an industrial town but I was dressed

for a more hipper spot. Red.

I was in weird red boots, red

socks, red hand gloves. My pants

and top not red but tattered.

I was feeling blue. Something hard

hit me. I didn’t see stars but

other worlds in miniature filled

with monkeys, men, other wildlife.

Orbs circling above phone wires,

smoke stacks, followed by blue

butterflies rising from my fingers,

fluttering over me in air. A pigeon

balanced on a small circus bike.

Under other worlds blossoming,

beneath a faint newsprint sky.

Pigeon said to me: shouldn’t have

taken pills proffered by that stranger.

Immersion lll (inspired by Immersion III by Andrea Geller)

a day to myself without guilt, early summer warmth focused, on my well being today, with sun’s rays tucked around me, ribbon clouds floating above, warm enough for a resting swim, the water ripples with a slight wind, a new meditation to float away with.

a day to myself with peace in my heart, water shimmers with blues of sky, as I glide through cool water, my body responds feeling weightless, closing my eyes, I bring my focus to sounds around me, water’s light movement, cardinal’s song in distance, and feel water as my support, total immersive relaxation.

Immersion III, 2021

after Andrea Geller

this could be an inky / chalky

Monet sky

could be an abstract / still life

ice floe

with blue shadows flowing within

icy whiteness

might

a mix of colors dropped into some

spinning bowl

BUT I have overlooked all

this time

the floating figure of some human

arms upstretched

and

now

wonder

are they are they are they are they

in distress distress distress

in all this placid peaceful blue

Alex (inspired by Denise Giardullo’s collage Spring Walk)

Alex doesn’t live here

anymore

he succumbed

to the dreams

in the rabbit hole

escaping

daily doldrums

finding comfort

with furry friends

becoming

a vegetarian

learning

to hop and jump

as modes of movement

twitching his itchy nose

for relief

becoming wary of

the fox and the hound

finding the hovel

relaxing and warm

an escape

from unwanted stress

the pill script

filled on Mondays

hoping to make it

through Sundays

when he crawls out from

the rabbit hole

Prepped for Zoom (Inhabiting New Earth)

Words for a painting by Josepha Gutelius

What a relief! Away with our suits,

our straight skirts, our stockings,

our high-heeled shoes

that we had to wear

to business meetings,

mostly to please

our male bosses—

now my friend and I

can wear our glittery

comfortable shimmery

shifts and gowns,

or whatever we like,

and whenever we like!

Away with the need

for long lines and hours

of crowded buses and subways—

now we can work and relax

in comfort in our own home.

Yes, Covid’s a drag:

frightening and constricting,

but we’re also

‘inhabiting a new earth’

of freedom and potential

So here we are

‘prepped for Zoom’,

ready to twirl and swirl

in our new gowns,

but also to talk openly

and honestly, and zoom

into the future!

Late One Afternoon (inspired by Pam Krimsky’s painting “Late One Afternoon”)

Been on the streets long, enough to look older than I am, but pushing barely legal, Don’t stare Don’t judge, using or abusing my life, take your pick, drugs worth the rent money spent, tucked deep within, my pocket threads unravel, while dressed to impress, the pusher down the street, currently satisfied in my room, maybe enough to add more to the bag next time? With a strong drink in my hand, and mascara sliding down my face, as my tender soul ebbs away, into the darkest shadows of the late afternoon.

Art Through the Centuries (inspired by Pam Krimsky’s painting Late One Afternoon)

In the gray sky, the Renaissance peeked through. It’s art was in every building. In the church, in the way a castle was near a modest house, nothing was without precision. The design that emerges from the love of life and the superb taste of the times. I was visiting France at the end of the nineteenth century. The sixteenth century was evident everywhere. The small bridge I crossed to see some of the houses was still strong, although built years ago. The Lilies floated in the water. I sat down by the pond. I felt a calm almost hypnotic effect. I imagined I saw the people that passed the pond many years ago, the dreams and hopes they discussed, inspired by the calm soothing pond, flowers floating by.

In the Chateau of the Renaissance the attic is often the richest part of the house . The high pitched roof could have three windows of beautiful design. The windows above the door could open upon the balcony, the hanging gardens are enchanting. One of my favorite writers, the novelist Henry James described this at a lecture he gave, he said he would, some day, write a travel book. I planned a trip to Chenonceaux, life is art in France. The planning of a home, the garden, the way food is placed on the table. That does not mean that economy does not play a part. France was often in turmoil. The religious wars, the cruel reign of the Medicis, revolution where the innocent were murdered with those who caused cruel misery. Despite the history of France, love was expressed for one another quite openly.

There were a few houses in town . A marble statue of the goddess Artemis was in the garden of a house that offered the weary traveler a room for the night and a good meal. I walked further down the road and saw a tall woman washing garments in the pond. Entering a cafe’ two men were talking and laughing at a table. I wished for company after seeing them. I was alone on this vacation. A strange puzzled looking man with thick red hair was looking at me. A man sat down at his table with a hat not worn by most Frenchmen, a tall pointed hat worn by the English town folk, usually to enjoy a night at the local tavern. People were entering the tavern and also leaving it constantly. A young woman with a white cap on her head, curly brown hair peeking out of it asked me what I would like to eat. She told me that they served a very rich vegetable soup, excellent French bread and the finest dinner in town. She wore an apron over her dress and took a pencil and paper from the pocket in it and wrote down my choice. After a good meal I returned to the hotel, sat in the hotel lobby not wanting to be alone, the enchanting woman at the desk, offered me a cup of tea. She wore her hair in a tight bun, her large eyes tired looking,her aristocratic features perfect for a renaissance painting. She told me that she was separated from her husband, they grew tired of arguing about the work at the hotel. He wanted to sell it. I refused and so I take care of it

myself with a small staff. I find it interesting, so many people visit from out of town, from all over the world. I’ve had a very good time here, I said. I have been made very comfortable. I would like to stay for a few more weeks. My name is Rose, and I am Claude, I am from the United States of America. Rose knocked on Claude’s room to bring him dinner.

They would dine together in his room on Tuesday evenings and talk about Rose’s art classes as she was studying with one of the well known impressionists, when Marie the most trusted of her staff could manage the hotel while she was at class. Claude sitting by the window reading the poetry of Shelley placed the book on the dresser. Rose placed the dinner tray on the small table used for meals in the room, and showed Claude a telegram she had received, the divorce from her husband is now official. I am free Claude she said. Claude smiled and confessed that he had fallen in love with her, Rose nodded and said she too had fallen in love with him. They married a few months later, Claude had also fallen in love with France, and they worked hard to make the hotel Chenonceaux one of the most charming places to stay in France.

Two centuries later, in October, in the year 2021, in the attic of the house that the great grandchildren of Rose and Claude lived, a house built in 1901 in Saugerties, New York, in America, on a street with other beautiful houses built at least a century ago, a letter was found that great grandmother Rose had written to their grandfather, her son, hoping that the family found happiness in America, to remember that strength and character are built from what we can do to make a living, if we can use our greatest gifts it is the most rewarding experience in life, and to know that they are loved and missed, a photograph faded from the nineteenth century of Rose and Claude was in the envelope with the letter.

Michael the great grandchild of Rose and Claude saw a painting hanging on the wall of the Emerge Gallery in Saugerties, New York. Rose would have loved, in her letter to grandfather she described her efforts as an art student with a well known impressionist, have you heard of Lautrec, he spends hours in the cafes of France drawing the subjects he chooses and later they hang on the walls of the most famous cafes and dance halls in France. The painting on the wall of the Emerge Gallery is by the artist, Pam Krimsky, it is entitled, “Late One Afternoon”.

Untitled (inspired by Pam Krimsky’s painting "Late One Afternoon”)

Late one afternoon

her metabolism

slowed to a crawl

she slides down

further in her chair

and wonders briefly what

decade it is

she's become

untethered in time

outside the opaque glass

could be children

dashing through

an open hydrant

dodging the pale specter

of polio

or grownups

playing Lionel

Hampton on portable

radios on

their front stoops

or protests

against Viet Nam

but who is the dark man

and why has he

come for her?

Four Cardinals, 2021

after Linda Lynton

We come four as one

perch on four limbs

in one barren tree

in the winter of

all your lives

We come plumed in red

a sanguine reminder of life

as harbingers and a comfort

to you all in light

of those you are missing

In barren times we know

the lives and loves that left

your hearts dry and fallow

but there will come another

season in bloom again

Kalmia Posing (inspired by Marjorie Magid’ painting Kalmia Posing)

Kalmia

dressed

for an occasional outing

waiting

not so patiently

uber driver late

a match date

awaiting

surely

this one

to be

a bit more balanced

than the last

at least willing

to pick up the tab

having learned

from past

rendezvouses

they never

are what they portrayed

shorter

fatter

loss of hair

and exercise

probably last century

but

for Kalmia

it’s a night

of freedom

she looking

rather proper and prim

hoping

for a hand hold

hug

possibly

peck on the cheek

sneaking out

kids don’t need to know

damn the uber driver’s late

inspired by Dorothea Marcus's photograph

Re Dorothea Marcus, Man with Cross

When the shadow

Bent and huddled to a darkened self

Stands midway to the door

But hangs its unaccomplished crown,

The legs that meant to walk

Stand cruciform,

And the head

Turns

From the now closed way.

Cross behind

And cross above,

The invitation lost.

Who

With knowledge

Would dare deny themselves

Transcendence?

Re Dorothea Marcus, Man with Cross 2 O love, whose sweet and liquid form Flows draped in clothes of living light, Hold still, sweet maid, one moment more, The basket of plantains upon your head, Your body in parade. My eyes are full My heart will break. What madness holds me here Where darkness fills the space above my head And all constraints of man and mind Take form in wood and stone To hold me to a place Where death abides While life instructs my living soul? For you, for love, for life, I leave behind all custom understood, Its shadowed forms and unrelenting whitewashed good, Unfurl my eager legs, Become your banner And the herald of your days To spend in night The radiance of your ways.

The first poem is from the point of view of the light source and is a judgement. This second piece is from the point of view of the man and is moving away from imposed constraints: theological judgement vs. humanistic liberation. — Anthony Franzese

Ride redux (Inspired by Elian Menzies painting “Ride Redux”)

Once upon a time, in the wildest of forests, the deepest darkest, most loneliest of wooded forest, where shadows lurk and scare, anything that lives, crawlies gather to hunt the weak, densest fog hangs within this forest never lifts, thorny brambles grabs skin, ground with deepest mud pulls you in...

I she wolf, mother to many pups, leader to large and strong pack, found a human pup, she alone, she scared, she hungry without her pack, how could this happen? I will care for her! she is welcomed into my pack, never separate, never hungry or cold, always with me and my many, forever safe.

The Emergence of Hope (inspired by Dennis Moore’s sculpture The Emergence of Hope)

A narrative for us all, the positive force of Hope, brings longing to experience more, wish full thinking, for unlived tomorrows, curious for changes, with reasoning to live another day, the emergence of Hope, from choice, chance, revolution, cooperation, or miracle, Hope emerging from shadow, working through storms of our lives, while having faith, for many glorious rainbows to emerge.

She Looks Like You

(inspired by Ingrid Nichter’s painting She Looks Like You)

She looks like you, you look like me.

Strings holding us together form only a tree.

She may be me, but I am not she.

The comparison is cute but only temporary.

The Life of the Stag

-- Catskills

(matched with Susan Phillips photograph, Night Terror)

You nibbled sharply on my lips, testing,

“You just want a girlfriend to help you carry logs.”

I held you bony and damp in my lap,

studied the cheek mole you said children loved to touch.

“And go to the movies with,” I said.

Your black Manhattan jeans lay dropped

on the fire rug by my rubber-soled Wolverines.

Smoke leaked from the wood stove like a cigarette.

In the morning we snowshoed Cross Mountain.

I showed you beech trees graffitied by bear claws

the size of our hands, and told you my story:

after the Hoboken divorce, I chose these mountains,

hung a Cherokee mask by my door,

filled my pencil holder with wild turkey feathers,

wrote my first ode to porcupines.

Then I found my Inner Wendigo,

named after the Indian spirit in a low-budget movie

shot one winter by our reservoir.

Half-deer loaded with antlers like bone chandeliers,

half-human in buckskin leggings,

this creature hurdled like an Olympian

through the midnight forest, while strobe lights

flashed beech trees, fierce as totem poles.

“And what was the Wendigo chasing?” you asked.

“The same old story,” I said, “revenge.”

We kissed, turning me back into a man.

Hope Summer Fields, 2021

after Terry Preisner

low sky whirls

with ribbons of

blue and white

base of distant mountains

mark what is

the beginning of earth

conifers: sentinels

over smaller sister

and open fields—tall order

all the while

self-centered wildflowers

sway in high grass

these fragile-thin flowers

whisper secrets to each other

ignore the first North winds

Gathering

(inspired by Tad Richards digital painting “I Know Why You Have Come”)

The left pupil hit the eye like a moth in a light bulb

And what of the light it’s searching for?

Dusk had long since ripened

I was the second to arrive

As to the woman whom the eye belonged

I suppose

Darkness you’d call it

Underneath

She gave herself up some time ago

For a death she couldn’t tear away

Too much has passed for the deceased to hold onto their name

Or face

The specifics could still be inquired after

In the way specifics are wont to doll themselves up for

To be felt again as a small bump on the older minds in town

A subtle recollection, more pretense than actual memory

Some kid, some ring-ed man, some sister with stranger’s blood

Perhaps all of them

The truth long broken with gossiper’s tongue and sentimentalist’s drivel

And the difference made no difference now

The moth dropped again to the moonlit eyes glassy bottom

After it had smacked the lens too hard

A flash altogether less than inspiration took her sight flying low

As my gaze trickled opaquely through the shut-in windows to her soul

Come to live

Come to nest

Secrets of mine kept by heavy word’s weight

Desires which make the bridge shades blush younger

Such perverse love as to render kindness uncharitable

Her focus lie there awhile

Tortured by the strands of my existence

Not a word for it, between us

Only to wait

A long wait

That is to wait

To wait

Longer

The third to arrive

I Hope You Enjoy This

(Inspired by Marilynn Rowley’s collage Uproar)

I hope you enjoy this;

This is the story of my life.

Based on a true story,

It covers diverse spheres of reality,

It covers itself with shame and glory,

It includes encounters with a wolf,

Encounters with a woman of several names

And roughly the same count as to bodies

But a rough consistency of libido.

Parts of it are told by a philosopher crow,

Parts of it assume a constant universe,

Other parts stretch themselves endlessly,

Endlessly, toward the purest inconstancy.

Come With Me (inspired by Rita Sherry’s painting)

Come with me.

The tale begins,

And wondrous sights we’ll see.

We’ll travel off to distant lands.

Our humdrum lives we’ll flee.

We both have worn our finest clothes,

You in your mask and I in my robe.

They will not find us

Though they search.

For different,

Different selves we’ll be.

Joke Depository (inspired by Lou Storey’s artwork Joke Depository)

he chuckled

too quickly

seemed forced

not a genuine

belly laugh

no tears

running down his cheeks

no shoulders shaking

stomach aching

a snicker

not even a giggle

but the room burst

into side splitting laughter

the hilarity

being

the jest

was on the jokester

Bobby Robby and RB (inspired by Cindy Sumerano’s painting Neighborhood Watch)

Bobby

Robby

and daddy RB

meet

Wednesdays

in the park

before a draft

at the bar

gun tote’n folk

if you know

what i mean

leave um home

when wives

come along

talk shit

when it’s just the 3

bout

the buck

that got away

bout the pheasant

that missed the shot

going bear hunting

next hunting season

big game

big dreams

anyone notice

new barmaid – barkeep – bartender - bartenderess

that an appropriate term

how do you be politically correct

this day and age

man

she’s got a fine ass

she’s got a cop

as a man…….friend

keep your hands off

order your beer

stay clear

wives would hear

RB snickered

pat attention men

or we’ll

be swatted

in the back of the head

our day

watch the kids

and watch

what ya say

5 o’clock’s

around the bend

Bobby

Robby

and daddy RB

meet

Wednesdays

Untitled (inspired by Pamela Tucker’s collage Summer 2020)

I didn't mean to do it.

He was there,

and the gun in my hand fired...loudly

And then it was soooo... quiet

and he lay sprawled at my feet.

Not a threat at all.

morning java (inspired by K. Velis Turan's Joe's Coffee)

oh the aroma

to hard to say no

oh the aroma

wakes one

from dreams

oh the aroma

a java please

Joe

isn’t my name

if it’s all the same

to you

i’d rather be called Sue

Susie

would do too

i want my Susie black

he said

she laughed

she leaned

i’ll have a latte please

he frowned

scratched his head

confused

a coffee

no ½ & ½

no sweetener

i want mine black

Joe was Susie

Susie was black

he got a coffee

shaking his head

swore

he’d never be back

oh the aroma

to hard to say no

oh the aroma

wakes one

from dreams

oh the aroma

a java please

a visit with grandfather (inspired by jd weiss’ photograph “a visit with grandfather”)

palms hardened with years of work, these days barely pushing a pencil callous.

empty room living with years of memories, floating in my head along with the cobwebs, comes with age I guess.

folks too busy, to wanna waste time on an old man, ‘cept for my very smart granddaughter, she brings her pup too.

.........................

every sunday I visit grandfather, bringing his favorite eclairs smiley loves to tag along.

grandfather’s hands wrinkle filled, worked hard and helped many, arms that always gives the most tender hugs.

he fills my heart with stories of our past, I feel so connected to years before, I existed such a wonderful man.

grandfather’s warmth and empathy, settles my struggles and fears, he’s the best,

fills my soul with new memories, I am so blessed.

— Michelle DeCicco