Posts from the ‘poetry’ Category

Holy Wowza!!!

i hope you’re reading this!  if so, we’re still in the game!  gosh times have gotten very weird here in the capital city with all the spooky goings on.  we’re not in la la land now, and so we should see many strange things.

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Montreal Road and Bradley, Vanier, Ontario, 850 a.m., this morning: normally this street at that hour is an insane runway filled to the brim with mad and barely qualified drivers.  if you want to watch an exercise in psychopathy: this is the place but be warned:  stand back.  the speed limit is 50 km but none of the savages pay any attention that.  today though…  the road was empty!

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boiling up a gallon of lemon and ginger tea: i had that stuff in the hopper all day, zipping and reading:

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the twinravens reading list for spring, 2020.  that book: The Inconvenient Indian, is an amusing read, but being one of “them”, there is only so much of that one a fella like me can read at one time.  good thing the Vincent Van Gogh book isn’t too far away.  and can someone please tell me wtff is up with James Joyce and A Portrait of the Artist As a Young Man…

The Power of Art and The Visual Dialogue are “toothy” reads…

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and speaking of FUN reads (and a great way to cool those anxious heels (ha!), some art making and art therapy is always a great way and time for saving souls):  the found poetry book in progress is filled with fun tales and beautiful pictures created by Yours Truly!  here is an absolute gem:

That Weekend At the Cottage

fearing the sleepless hours to come, lurking somewhere out there in the darkness…

The evening air had cooled to the perfect temperature for dinner with friends.  It was a night for sex, long and slow under the stars with the scent of lavender drifting into the windows and night sparrows chirping in the trees.  I used to know what it was like to be in love, she thought, I used to know that sweet aching need for one man.  But she could no longer remember it.  She could see it, could picture it, but the emotion was gone from her body…

The End.

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Rider on the Storms, various black inks on wood panel, 8×10 inches, by anishnabe artist Mark Seabrook.  Created fresh just the other day!  We ship anywhere!  Email me if you would like to purchase this piece.

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that was nice of them!  i’d like to think an original Mark Seabrook acrylic on canvas in any of my styles could brighten up your day!

super switching gears and art styles:

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spooky!  i’m always on the look out for something to create in general issue black and white.  this afternoon while on the snoop i stumbled across this who ever’s nice work.  i like what they have happening in the back ground as well.

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spooky!  i got to thinking about this one as a starting point for something with an indigenous “twang”.  that indian accent.  that indio rez slang.  (good thing the weekend will soon be here!)

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we’re going here, this weekend,  but we’re going to switch out good old Boney for something more like this:

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Hell On Earth, Indian Residential School, acrylic on canvas board, 7×9 inches, by anishnabe artist Mark Seabrook.

i think we need to boot this one up to fit that flashy 8×10 inch frame i have here in the living room, the frame at present: is empty.  let’s see what can be done come Saturday.

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one more love story:

Indian Summer

She laughed.  “Of course, yes.  That is what I mean.  I fell in love.”

they watched one another for a long moment.  Oh, to see the world with innocent eyes.

When they finally spoke, her voice sounded different, younger and softer than before.

“You are the first person I ever told this to,” she said in a quiet voice.  Her black hair fell across her cheeks.  Slowly, her dark eyes found his.  She was naked.  

“Do you understand?” she whispered.

“Will you make me say it?”  she whispered.

She pulled him forward.  She wrapped her arms around the back of his neck, slid her legs around his waist.

“Fill me with fire again,” she breathed.

his bed creaked.  Of course she was gone.  He remembered the thrill he felt as her tanned arms slid around him…

The End.

let’s walk our way through this wilderness of wild times!  and of course enjoy good wines and good conversations with those we are locked in with.

 

February 29th

so much drama in the news these days!  while waiting for paint to dry:  so many strange things coming in over the wire:

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can’t open a cell phone without seeing “stuff”.  WILD stuff…

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made a late night drive to Toronto, as always, listening to CBC, and this one came on and holy SHOOT!  Pat said a few things in this show, good authentic gravy i thought she was talking about me…   (i had to pull over and make a phone call!!!)

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pop up art show:  on the corner of McCaul and Dundas, Toronto, Ontario, Canada.  24×36 inches on gallery canvas.  my Stevenson paint getting lower and lower…

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safely in the gallery on Dundas, across from the AGO.  that is a John Laford hanging with the twinravens.com.

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on Dundas W., Toronto:  everywhere you go these days!  and i’m not talking about Snoop!

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medicine bowl, at the corner of Rideau and Sussex, Monday afternoon, Feb. 24th:  protest/rally, downtown.  they had the hand drums there as well.

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signage at the rally/protest on Monday afternoon, corner of Sussex and Rideau.

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INSANE cbc news story cooking up over the past 18 to 24 months.  what is the world coming to when the so called Senate has someone like this on the payroll?

it’s getting to be that if you’re indian in Canada, you aint safe.

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you know the story?  (Found poetry book number 5, a work in progress.)

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“I was 14, She was 32”, found poem, Found poetry book 5, a work in progress, art therapy exercise number B.  it’s amazing, the fun you can have with a repurposed book, a few sharpie markers, and a guided exercise like black out poetry.  we’re using these fantastic art making exercises to cool many.

while in the storm: i try to use art and peace!  and love!

Life in the Big City No. 3-02-23-020

i’m on the swanky 9th at sunrise, Sunday morning, life on the road: artist doing that art sales thing.  up for grabs:

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Power Bird, acrylic on gallery canvas, 24×36″, by anishnabe artist Mark Seabrook.

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Bear Clan Power, acrylic on gallery canvas, 24×36″, by anishnabe artist Mark Seabrook.

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Power Bird: Body, Mind, Spirit, acrylic on gallery canvas, 24×36″, by anishnabe artist Mark Seabrook.

needless to say: with each finished painting we’re getting closer to the end our days with Stevenson paint.  yikes.

Friday afternoon i called up all the art supplies stores in Toronto asking: do you have any Stevenson acrylic?

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Articulations on Dundas W. had a few stragglers so i snapped those up on Saturday afternoon, knowing full well it could be the last of the Stevenson in the whole city!

while on Dundas, thought i would take a ride down to the AGO.  tis an entertaining drive with many kooky scenes along the way, as seen from the cosy confines of my new car.  the new car wiggles down those streets no problems, but out there on the big four lanes: there is nothing under the hood…

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look up there:  that’s someone’s crib!  talk about a room with a view!  that photo is taken from the corner of McCaul and Dundas, directly behind me is the AGO.  beauty sunny day for a stroll through the mad jungles!

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the club on McCaul, just up the street from the AGO.  love that club name.  hey!  we’ll have to go there sometime in the summer.

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directly across the street from the Sin and Redemption club!  ha ha!  nice work boys.

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“That Weekend @ the Cottage”, Found poetry Book 5, a work in progress.  i’m having a fun go of it with book 5, and as always using that “love” theme, “wild sex” theme and of course: “memory lane” theme, to tell wild stories of passion, sexual adventure, and love tossed.  loving too, the “Weekend at the Cottage” idea as we surely have spent a few!  sweet and sexy x 3.  for more on the Found Poetry idea, scroll through the blog, we have a few fun entries going on about the idea.

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crafty ideas:  that is a Dollarama box (4 bucks), ball point pen and sharpie marker, artwork by Mark Seabrook.  we’re always looking for bright ideas for the art making workshops that we conduct, art making for folks who think they have no artistic abilities.  well we at twinravens art schools surely put that idea to the test!  this little project came together in a short 50 minutes, radio playing in the background.  folks around the table called it a “memory box” while others said it could be used for a “traditional medicines place”.  however you use it, you can personalize it quickly without creating a mess on your table top!

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memory box/medicine keeper box top: art work by Mark Seabrook.  also in the shot:  Book 5, Found Poetry.  in our art making workshops we like to keep the participants hands busy!  strawberry smoothie in the background: try to stay healthy…

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the arts and crafts table:  memory box in back, Found Poetry Book 5 in front.  you don’t need a bunch of swanky and expensive art supplies to have some fun with us!  twinravens brand art making workshops are for everyone anywhere at anytime!

 

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okay we’ll try this again.  the last time we darn near let the cat “outa the bag”!!!  whoops!

before we get into the art news check this out:

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that is yours truly many moons ago:  screen shot from a vid.  the only reason i bring that one up is i want you to hear this song: 

that one:  was it really track 4?  all i know is we played it in the live show right after the initial bombardment: 4 thundering NR songs that absolutely got that audience to take notice.  this is the one the ended that bombardment and what a way to start the show.  ah but those were some show bizz daze…  fun times.  (psst:  we need to get the band back together.)

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someone in our recent travels asked if i knew a thing or two about the guitar and i said yes, that in the past, i had dabbled with it.  well another someone in the higher up heard that…  and they also knew about the band.  that “someone” is down the road another 10 year further than me, and let me say this much:  it is fun to know there are a few native folks out there who remember!  folks who are in a driver’s seat.

ah.  here is another for good measure:

we tried to open the show with that one but it was best to close the show with it.  (road show stories too!)(check out Danny Boy on those drums!)(he was a WIZARD!)

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i was standing in the “sweet spot”: where i could hear all the guitars and vocals on the stage!  ha.  with all that rock and roll can you believe at times, on stage, it’s difficult to hear things?

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of course i had to put this one on:  that’s Jen playing the congas, and that’s me watching the clock!  Buffy Ste Marie was up next and we didn’t want to keep her waiting!

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the new t shirt!  you know i’ve seen that shirt running around here and there:  strong, resilient, indigenous.

well.  when you’ve been around a bit, you’re tired of the flavour of the month with these words from overseas trying to tell us what we are.  first it was:  savage.  then it was: indian.  then it was:  native.  then it was:  aboriginal.  now it’s: indigenous.  and i, along with a few other old soldiers wonder what in the heck is it going to be next month?!!!

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so someone asked me what’s up?  i said:  i joined the resistance when i was 13 and have been fighting ever since.  i am powerful, i lived, unlike quite a few of my brothers in arms, who are KIA, or MIA.  i am authentic!  i am a real ANISHNABE.  i am not one of these fake Joseph Boyden/Grey Owl wannabeeze…   i won’t get scammed by a white salesman down on Hazelton Lanes, trying to sell me a 20 000 dollar “FAKE” Norval Morrisseau painting!  and i am not colonized:  i never bought into the religion from overseas and i sure as hell never thought a minute about the so called queen and “big ears”, that son of hers who went and got his ex wife killed and would likely F up a cup of coffee if he had to make it on his own.  nope!  that is supposed to be your future king?

well my queen is Queen:  We Will Rock You/We are…

(“My Melancholy Blues” is a close second!) 

you better listen to that one with the headphones…

wearing the shirt:  that is the GREAT JASMINE MOON, at the 2nd annual AFN Round Dance, O Town, a weekend ago.  and she is ANISHNABE.  still in training.

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speaking of Joe Boyden:  there sure are a lot of his books turning up in the Salvation Army bookshelves!  i know he made his millions playing indian, pulling the wool over who knows how many white eyes, and red eyes (ha!) but let’s just hope for a minute that there is still a chance for us real indian writers.  not sure what word to use these days!  savage.  indian.  native.  aboriginal.  indigenous…  flipping aliens…

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in progress, and using the LAST of the Stevenson paint…  (boo hoo!)  24×36 inches on gallery canvas.  it looks like we might have 6 more paintings at best, in Stevenson before we have to find that new brand.  i’m hoping a professional indio artist will take me under his/her wing/wings.

in the spirit of:

forget about the lame version by Ed V.  this is the real version.  my thing is this: if you can’t do it better than them, leave it alone.  as far as i’m concerned:  Ed V. SUCKED!  i’d say leave it alone dude but we know they handed him a great big fat pay cheque for that one!

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ah yes:  No Rez, we need to get that band back together.  the principles are still around!  and we’ll say this!  those songs are still relevant today:  like:  Putting Up a Barricade!  Native Pride.  Civilized Man.  Road Is So Long.  Dreamcatcher.  Logging Road.  Hollywood Indian.  actuals.  authentica.  NR was the real deal and still is.

i used to think the term “survivor” was a bit too big, but yes, i was way wrong about that.

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i know the dad who adopted me and saved my life, he was a ww2 survivor.  truth be told i’m not so sure how he came back from that.  but he was a survivor.  my 3 older brothers are dead and my 3 younger ones are missing.  what does that make me?

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at any rate:  the poison runs thick and strong, and it’s in us.  we need to water it out of us.  if we can keep the water clean which seems like a chore these days with the pipe lines and train derailments and jumbo jets and etc.

(cue in the music, Frankie!)

 

And SO! x 2

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I hate to see it go as it IS one of my personal faves:  but it is going.  And gone.  That is acrylic in a water colour technique, finish depending on the “tooth” of the canvas board.

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Another of my personal faves, shipped out, and gone.  The empty spaces on my walls…  Like a lot of things going on around here.  Thank goodness for Nadja, there in the blond hair, she’ll keep a close eye on things.

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Going back to the MET:  that story…  of me walking in there, stone aged, and seeing this!  Have mercy: I’m going to see a quack.  Hopefully we can sort out the weird-ness of what… what is this weird attraction?  The quack is also an art historian (hobby horse!) and knows a thing or two about the Indians and land reserved for Indians.  Plus…  she IS pretty attractive dot dot dot…

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Other MAD scenes in the MET:  this was actually in there, in the MET, on a Thursday afternoon in December…  (kooky…  )

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Check out the date:  March 10, 1995.  My how some drawings tell the tale!

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Flash Back!  May 1991.  That’s me, in Belmont, Manitoba on a Saturday afternoon.  We’re on the road to Whitehorse, a well oiled machine, show bizz, rock and roll.  But on this afternoon I had to get the van serviced so I took off alone, left the apes in Brandon, and found myself in Belmont.  Put the van in the line  up and started walking through this one horse town.  Took lunch at the diner, fresh, old time sandwiches made while you wait.  Wrote a letter to my sister. Thought about “her”.  Imagined myself back home, swimming in the warm waters off the south end of the island.  Tanned my feet both front and back.  Read the NY Times, the paper was at least 12 years old.  Drank a sweet fifth of Hoola, with a cut of water.  Rolled in the sunshine.  Imagined the war: on going, in lands far away.  Smoked home grown.  Wore my black bikini.  Settled under the sun.  Drove the island roads with the window down, my left arm hanging out the window.

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When I got back home from Scotland the lawn was a mess!  Lucky for me we had a suitcase filled with 20 dollar bills.  So I fired up the lawn mower and tried to rescue my lawn.  This is 10 days into July, 2018:  I was out there alone.  The girls were on the road.  What madness went on and off and out and in.  I snapped this photo of the crib at sunrise and remembered when I was over there, all I could think about in those final hours over there, was getting back home.  And surprise!  There I was.

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Sunrise in summer:  on the range.  This was in July 018, smoking hot and super dry!  I was there and I was thanking my lucky stars I’d made it home!  I was VERY happy being there in the summer of 018.  Wonderful memories.

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In the grand and glorious summers of the past, this one in August 014, we see many a grand and glorious scene:  this one looking due north, out where the horses are.  We were in the house and noticed the wind had changed so we went out for a looksie and saw the north sky had turned to a boiling thousand shades of grey!  Fantastic!

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On stage with NR back in 017:  We need to get the band back together.

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Sister JEN!  Working the magic.  She owns the show.  Summer of 017.

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Before the gig:  we might look cool but we’re not!  We’re both scared.  It is show business.  And no matter how many times you do the show, rehearse the show, when you put a crowd of folks out there, you’ll have butterflies deluxe.

Mask making with Mark!

Mask making with Mark!

Mask making:  that hand design… We’ve alway been ahead of the curve.  (the mask making exercise is SOLID GOLD real estate.)  All ages, no matter where.

Closing poem:

CRUSING BACK THE RANCH WITH MY YOUNG FRIEND

to see what we can see
come night time in a room
full of books, paintings, feathers and bones
the window wishes west
while the sun is arriving
at six in the summertime
she sleeps above the trees
below the stars
not a second close
enough to please me even mildly
in a red willow wind
curtains whisper quiet sins
moon
the island still
silent stars
the way she was stolen
by your quiet smile
into the night
when the drums are distant
shadows of the pines
cooling dew grass
the fringes on her shawl
the ferns are spooky
barefoot during the night
the feathers and bones
of a crooked crow dying
modern day pow boy
wishing well into the night
think about the moons you have missed
treating your life like you had nine
words by mark seabrook

 

 

Saturday Night Blizzard!

Well maybe it “aint no” blizzard like the folks in NFLD whooped through in the past 24 hours but here in O’sville, outside, now, 6 p.m., it aint pretty.  And it IS ice Flipping cold!  that is why I’m tucked away in here, in the crib, with the fake fire going, fake fireplace on the TV, 2D logs burning bright, warm as toast, snug as a bug, nestled up next to a Henschke Cyril Henschke Cab slash Sauv slash Franc slash Mer mixarama.  The folks are pitching it as extra dry but I’m telling you right now its twice the sweet as I like them.  Ah well.  It IS a snow storm out there.  And those Australian Vins on a cold winter night are something to write home about.  I’d write home if I had one…

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And so!  It IS a blizzard, I’m in for the evening with the vin and a book.  Thought I’d re read the “CLASSIC HORROR STORY” by kooky Sinclair Ross:  The Painted Door.  Of course when I was sporting, many moons ago, we’d make that trip, a mile anyway…

Things have changed since then.  Now, as an old man, we don’t need to wade through classic Canadian horror stories as we have enough of them stowed in our own story telling departments: if it were a library, a mighty library it would be as some of us did!  I was reminded of that when I crossed paths with an old soldier today:  same age as me!  We laughed and cackled our way through stories about the ages, old names, old places, now all dead and gone.  Yet we remain: Two Anishnabe, from the same year, many times in the same places, with the same people, yet never crossing paths until today.  Slick stuff.

We got to that story sharing place where I told him about that night at the International on Kathleen Street, N’Swakamok, summer of 1995:  I was in there with one of the killers, as back up.  He was in there looking for someone but he never told me why he was looking for this person.  We sat ourselves down at a table and ordered drinks and pretty soon this young Anishnabe dude came along and sat himself down at our table.  This dude knew the killer and they were chatting up a storm, going on about “stuff”.  Well I’d heard enough after about 20 seconds and said to the killer:  Is this the guy?

As I said that I was reaching inside my coat with my right hand and the dude FREAKED!  He put his hands up right away and said Hey Man!  I didn’t do anything!

Of course he was right.  I was just reaching into my coat pocket to get my cigarettes, to see if he wanted a Marlboro Red.  Back in those days you could smoke in the bar.  It was kooky to see though how that dude nearly shit his pants when I did that.  Ha ha.

It has been one of those winter days.  Cool too though when you cross paths with folks of the same vintage.

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Girl From the North Country, Found Poetry, Book 5, a work in progress.  Drawing by Mark Seabrook, Anishnabe artist.  Truth is I have NOT been drawing over the past few or several years and…  They were right.  It does go away if you don’t keep at it.

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Anishnabe Kwe, Found Poetry, book 5.  So yes, we’re still working at it.  The book is 400 plus pages and the story is INSANE!!!  So we’re mostly painting over the pages of text and making this one into a book of drawings.  There are a few poems in there but not as many as in the past books.  The drawing practice has been good for this old boy.

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Ed Hopper at the MET.  Remember how I was going on about that meltdown at the MET, back in December?  Well here we are a long way from, and here they are in no particular order, the paintings that brought on the meltdown…

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Have mercy.  You can read a ton of books about this one but when you’re standing where he once stood:  the same distance away I mean, there is a fine line between living out your dream and shitting your pants on the NY subway.

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Good Wowza.  If you are a visual artist, and you walk into a room and see this…  Well lets just say this:  I was in there looking at this and wondered if maybe it might have been better had I been KIA in the Great Hay Wagon Disaster of 78.  (If you don’t know what that is, scroll back through a few blog postings…  )

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Good Gawd!  Anyone out there reading this:  are you a painter?

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Jeepers H. Mary and M.F. Joe!  You read about it.  You see a small picture in an art history book text.  But then there it is.  Wowza x 2.

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Stop.  Stand.  And Stare.  Holy chocolate wagon wheels someone actually created this with their bare hands…  (Q. And what am I doing?  A.  A GREAT BIG FAT NOTHING.)

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OFMFGF.  We went over this in art school for days.  Detailing it, went over it, shoulder to shoulder on our hands and knees, going over every inch of the details with an extremely powerful art history instructor.

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Yup!  I was nearly a sobbing wreck by this point.  Just like that time I watched the first 5 minutes of the movie:  UP.

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Okay.  No words.  There it is.

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Have mercy!

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Absolute melting point:  if you’re an art enthusiast and dreaming…  If you see something like this, in the MET, after all these years…   (Well lets just say it will be the crows nest for me.)

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Here though:  something turned.  I may have rounded a corner with this one.

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Stopped and stared.  Imagined Mr. R. standing there too, cigarettes in hand…  ages ago.

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K.M. in his gear, making the presentation on Thursday night to a darn near a sold out show.  He had his book, getting his words straight, but what I was worried about is that he was going to fall off those great big high heels he was wearing!  He didn’t fall off his shoes and it was a great performance, and a great show:  glad to be there and see it first hand.  That painting of course, if you scroll back through the blog, you’ll  see it up close, from that night long ago…

And so the snow storm continues.

alone at Carter's Bay in a long ago summer time

alone at Carter’s Bay in a long ago summer time

I dream about the beaches back home: the wind and the waves, the sun, the earth, the sky.  The blue and green.  And yes:  The sienna, the gold and silver.

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Oh la la!  There will be time to get back to those water falls and that river where I call home.  I usually travel at night.  I’ll arrive at sunrise!

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When you live a bit, silly things like a snow storm are nothing.  Rooms in a house, the “Famous Cockroach Incident”, a thousand mile drive at a hundred miles an hour, the summer of 1995, the lawns between her house and mine at age 12, her red jacket…

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I’ve got a home waiting for me.  Yes I’m the road now but I’ll be home soon.  For now though, we have the art, the road, the snow storm, the flash Australian Vin, and the stuff not worth mentioning out the front window, the back window and the side windows:  life i the city in mid January.

Keep on keeping ON!

 

 

The Dream at the End of the World

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Opening pages of Found Poetry Book 4: The Dream at the End of the World.  I loved that title and to boot: printed way back in 1991, the paper is quality stuff that can handle the sharpie markers, highlighters and thinly spread dollar store acrylic paint.  I keep saying “thinly spread” as no matter how good the paper quality is in these old books, if you layer on gobs of acrylic, bad things are going to happen to your book project.  I’ve seen it happen with a few participants and yes it can get messy fast.  And that’s when the tears start…

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Remember: this is meant to be a long term art making project.  As you can see I started this one way back on September 4, 019.  Here we are at December 15th and I have 3 pages to go!  The opening “found poem”, is 2 pages of love…

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Found poems…  Love this stuff!  As I said to participants:  what literary surprises are waiting for us with every page?

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The End of Art School, found poem No. 3, is an 8 page beauty that goes like this:

in a dream, rising up through the tranquil sleep of a warm May evening, left in its wake a delicious sense of peace, of afternoon sunlight, the dream terrain, i felt the thrill of recognition, was offering, up to him again.  

his life was out of control, sidetracked by untidy passions, impulsive missteps, messy obsessions…

daring was in his art, and his ambition seemed limitless, he was an accomplished poet as well as a musician, still, he was beginning to feel like a hired hand, and he was weary of focusing his energy on works that were not his own.

disturbing, nihilistic, quietly bizarre…

its perpetual distraction.  as summer approached, the power of his stories, the dream had shown him the way.

flirtatious, seductive, she staged mad crushes, they had become favourites among the creative elite, they were famous among the famous.

his only refuge was his imagination, he invented his own planet, “I was always trying to get away.”

found his freedom, possessed of a diffident charm, and sensible in summer, thrillingly remote, was vital and clamorous, the ancient native, life burst through the seams, wonderfully excessive, costume balls, expeditions and martinis, cleanliness and efficiency.

steady, hot, with a moon that is like a sun when it is full, a madhouse: the piano in their isolated house was wildly out of tune…

trance dancing-all of it was part of the pageantry, Sahara, the sky had a life of its own, baptism of solitude, silent country, sensation of existing in the midst of something that is absolute: the absolute has no price.

mystical undercurrents ran deep, a man transforming, the supple nature of reality, on the other side of the looking glass, alienness intoxicating, insupportable jealousy, I shall be away. 

pursued the exotic, self indulgent, he kept up his creative momentum, he transported himself, an untamed twenty year old, the two began to spin fantasies.

a protagonist in his novel, restless souls who wanted to explore life outside, purpose and spirit, it was a mystery, She laughed: “You KNOW I don’t want you to go.”

a close friend of both, i dimly remember my own face and not yours, how psychosomatic can you get?

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Of course there is room for drawing: “Fancy Shawl Dancer, who IS Mother Earth”,  sharpie marker, thinly spread dollar store acrylic.

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And room too, for experimenting with the draw and the subject of the draw:  black ball point pen with sharpie marker on acrylic paint.  Maybe there is an opportunity to create a new series of pictures from the sketches in these pages.

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Some days are tougher than others…  Sharpie marker on acrylic paint.

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“True Love: age 22, (I knew her name)”, Found poem, a 12 page extravaganza!

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Once into it, these sketches can be pretty telling…  (life on the road…  )

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And of course there is room for fun stuff!  The end page of a wildly sexual poem, from the Road Taken!

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Ah yes: room to explore, room to create, and maybe a new series of paintings in the development stages…

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Heavy duty and ultra supra TELLING!  Wow.  This drawing is from the last of the pages in the book, 384 pages of found poems, drawings, journals, love stories, memory brambles lane, black circles under blood shot eyes, spinning out in a parking lot, from soup to nuts, insanity before xmas in the city.

Yes the found poetry book project is a work in progress and an exciting exercise for the creative soul.  On Monday I’ll be back in the goodwill on the snoop, looking for another interesting title with high quality paper.

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Power Bird, acrylic on canvas, 18×24 inches, by anishnabe artist Mark Seabrook.  Made fresh this past week and using a new brand of acrylic paint!  The last of my Stevenson Professional Acrylic, and I mean the last, we’re down to the bottom of the barrels, I’m pretty sure we only have a half dozen paintings remaining in those paint barrels.  Very sad for me as Stevenson was my brand since all the way back in art school.

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Power Birds, acrylic on canvas, 24×36 inches, by anishnabe artist Mark Seabrook.  Originally it was a black and white but with this new brand of paint in the house, it’s time to explore and see what she can do.

Just ten days before Xmas and…  yikes: another year will be in the books.