The images below inspired poems by members of the Illinois State Poetry Society!
The Addison Center for the Arts acknowledges support from the Illinois Arts Council Agency.
EXHIBIT DATES: February 15 - March 18, 2023
PUBLIC ART/POETRY RECEPTION: Saturday, February 18, 2023, 1 to 4 pm.
ACA HOSTS 3rd ANNUAL “EXPRESSIONS: ART AND VERSE” EVENT FEBRUARY 18, 2023
The Addison Center for the Arts hosted our third collaboration between visual artists and the Illinois State Poetry Society. Participating poets read poems inspired by original artworks by members of the Addison Center for the Arts. The public was invited to attend the free art reception and poetry program on Saturday, February 18, 2023, from 1 to 4 pm.
Julie Mars, the organizer of Expressions: Art and Verse 2023 explains, “This exhibition is intended to celebrate the mingling of art forms. It showcases how visual art can inspire poetry. Visual art evokes a personal, subjective experience within the viewer’s mind. In this art and poetry show, the poets have interpreted their inner experience of the artwork for us in their poems.”
Illinois artists exhibiting in “Expressions: Art and Verse 2023” are:
Tania Blanco, Margaret Bucholz, Susan Cargill, Benjamin Calvert III, Ashley Ehrhardt, Andrea Fox, Jeanne Garrett, Beth Gollan, Jennifer Hauser, Tony Ilivanov, Joan Ladendorf, David Morris, Hanh Nguyen, Sharon Peters, Nancy Staszak, Lyn Tietz, Ana Vitek, and Sindee Viano.
The Illinois State Poetry Society’s featured members are: Marie Asner, Jo Balistreri, Bakul Bannerjee, CR Bolinski, Mary Beth Bretzlauf, Paul Buchheit, Hanh Chau, T. H. Chockley, Kathy Cotton, Judith Cummings, Gail Denham, Barbara Eaton, Idella Pearl Edwards, Sheila Elliott, Michael Escoubas, M. E. Hope, Mark Hudson, Judith Kaufman, Maggie Kennedy, Rafael Lantigua, Lennart Lundh, Karian Markos, William Marr, Wilda Morris, Susan Moss, Carole Novak, René Parks, Marie Samuel, Nancy Schaefer, Curt Vevang, and Rita M. Yager.
Susan Moss, ISPS President about Expressions: Art and Verse: “In the early 1970s, ISPS began as a single chapter and became a charter member of the National Federation of State Poetry Societies in 1991. Presently, there are seven chapters throughout the state, and all are committed to creating and promoting poetry in all its forms.
ISPS appreciates the opportunity to blend art and poetry that results in a collaboration of these artistic forms in order to present a greater expressive whole.” - Susan T. Moss, President of the Illinois State Poetry Society.
Jeanne Garrett
Milkweed Series 3, archival pigment print
$350
Milkweed Series 3, archival pigment print
$350
MIRACULOUS FLIGHTS
In the deep darkness of midnight,
the prairie is silent except for birds,
Autumn has cast its melancholy net
over dry grass and stalks of thistles.
Yellowing broad leaves of milkweeds
are hardy. Stems don't bend easily but
prop up seedpods to be kissed by
the rays of the rising sun. Pods wait.
Each pod rests for the floss inside
to swell. When the time is just right,
like the urge under pressure, they burst,
propelling each seed to joyous flight.
by Bakul Banerjee
In the deep darkness of midnight,
the prairie is silent except for birds,
Autumn has cast its melancholy net
over dry grass and stalks of thistles.
Yellowing broad leaves of milkweeds
are hardy. Stems don't bend easily but
prop up seedpods to be kissed by
the rays of the rising sun. Pods wait.
Each pod rests for the floss inside
to swell. When the time is just right,
like the urge under pressure, they burst,
propelling each seed to joyous flight.
by Bakul Banerjee
Jeanne Garrett
Silver Moon, digital Inkjet Print on Rice paper with metallic thread
14" x 16"
$300
Silver Moon, digital Inkjet Print on Rice paper with metallic thread
14" x 16"
$300
Celestial Bonding
Locals gather at the beach
on an August night to greet
the Sturgeon Moon as it breaks
dusky horizon, first flash
of silver that slowly emerges
from waterline and casts ripples
of light across lake and sand,
its radiance growing brighter
as the glowing sphere climbs
farther into orbit with its magic
washing over rotted pylons that once
supported a wharf eighty years ago.
Gossamer threads bathe us
in tranquility while painting the earth
and sky as they have for billions of years.
Susan T. Moss
Locals gather at the beach
on an August night to greet
the Sturgeon Moon as it breaks
dusky horizon, first flash
of silver that slowly emerges
from waterline and casts ripples
of light across lake and sand,
its radiance growing brighter
as the glowing sphere climbs
farther into orbit with its magic
washing over rotted pylons that once
supported a wharf eighty years ago.
Gossamer threads bathe us
in tranquility while painting the earth
and sky as they have for billions of years.
Susan T. Moss
Jeanne Garrett
Healing Series 3, digital inkjet print on rice paper with cotton gauze
16" x 20"
$350
Healing Series 3, digital inkjet print on rice paper with cotton gauze
16" x 20"
$350
Lines & Healing Circles
By Marie Samuel
Outside the boxes
Inside straight lines
To seek a centering
We find so sublime
Til inside boxes
Outside those lines
Swirling circles now
Each hopes and pines
Can we find new boxes
Within the curving lines
Mostly we need healing
From brutal daily grinds
Daily warring-some detox
Others calmer paths define
Missions ageless are current
Now coloring outside lines.
By Marie Samuel
Outside the boxes
Inside straight lines
To seek a centering
We find so sublime
Til inside boxes
Outside those lines
Swirling circles now
Each hopes and pines
Can we find new boxes
Within the curving lines
Mostly we need healing
From brutal daily grinds
Daily warring-some detox
Others calmer paths define
Missions ageless are current
Now coloring outside lines.
David Morris
Alchemy, oil on panel
NFS
Alchemy, oil on panel
NFS
After Alchemy by René Parks
Tender youth, our breath joins the clouds
swirling to the heavens in a single note
we circle the fire
warm fronts, cold backs
bodies dividing dark from light
warm golden hues dance in the pupils of our eyes
daring flames reveal the future, we gaze at each other, greedy for life:
I. Calcination
moon glow sets my bright skin to moving
downy hairs on their ends
energy shifts around my body, crown to perineum
building heat like the driest desert song on a death valley day,
drawing my attention, I am community’s captive,
I am sliding the bolt from the lock in my minds eye
under closed lids, eyes look together and up, toward my third eye,
i turn twelve
II. Dissolution
fully round, my face
seeks its own brilliance
I want to know
how you turn me inside out
swelling to overtake, like a soft valley accepting its wet sister
slicking along, moving away
like embers of fate on the bank, my destiny dissolves in the flow
III. Separation
exposing me to my essentials, salt, i am elemental
catlike with a wolf’s heart, teeth bared but with
an expression of love from my chest
inspiring the wind with each note i chant
and the sound of it breaks blocks
sonic waves make savory laps over my surface, jiggling apart the rocky exterior
rocks jump around like little beans on my body
scattering themselves on the ground until i can’t tell the difference
the division makes me black and blue and I weep for lost time
the whore-moans driving me mad, then quiet, a glance to the pane, reflecting
IV. Conjunction
watching the leaves fan themselves, the hot waves roll of my body
each side takes its turn to bask in the light, under the moon
I flip from side to side, wanting both to be at once
smooth to rough and back again
soaking up the radiance
compounding myself into moon sugar
my sweet words melt into the soil
V. Fermentation
a low boil under Inanna’s gaze, rising in slow hot bubbles
expiring a distinct smell, the smell of change, a spicey vinegar bursting at the top
it starts in my brain, pulsing until
it overtakes my thoughts with fevered imperative
nothing is safe from the force of it
nothing is sacred here
I turn forty
VI. Distillation
and then the cool morning comes to me, settling
clouds repose
rest may finally come except the low buzz of the possibility that it might take this time
VII. Coagulation
clotting around each lid
touching like ouroboros
lash to lash
in my ears, the sonorous tock of
twining loops of time
a stiff patina unifies the broken
days with the texture of a sharp drum
beat grooving my heart
a swift crescent shape sweeps the sky
filling itself full of stars
matching my mouth, growing into an awed oh
i go to sleep to travel back in time
to tell my son i love him
to warn him of what the future will bring
i navigate his age before and now
i make myself back into the same mother i was then
so as not to raise alarm, i hold his toys in my arms,
looking directly into his eyes, to see the ef ect i am having as I speak
is he listening? he is wise beyond his years now
I leave him and move to the ice chest
only to find a smaller more impossible ice chest, one inside the other
the smaller chest gives up a secret warmth
a pitcher of oil: hot, golden, healing
to absolve myself I suppose
i anoint my beating heart, soft and muscular at the same time
slippery under my fingers, as they start to tingle with life
feeling the fire once again
just before the icey night was going to make off with me
I feel the hands of my sisters sitting with me at the fire
I turn forty-eight
and yet, I don’t know myself
this flat passionless version,
not yet feeling the effects of the oil
and my own loving hands on my heart.
Tender youth, our breath joins the clouds
swirling to the heavens in a single note
we circle the fire
warm fronts, cold backs
bodies dividing dark from light
warm golden hues dance in the pupils of our eyes
daring flames reveal the future, we gaze at each other, greedy for life:
I. Calcination
moon glow sets my bright skin to moving
downy hairs on their ends
energy shifts around my body, crown to perineum
building heat like the driest desert song on a death valley day,
drawing my attention, I am community’s captive,
I am sliding the bolt from the lock in my minds eye
under closed lids, eyes look together and up, toward my third eye,
i turn twelve
II. Dissolution
fully round, my face
seeks its own brilliance
I want to know
how you turn me inside out
swelling to overtake, like a soft valley accepting its wet sister
slicking along, moving away
like embers of fate on the bank, my destiny dissolves in the flow
III. Separation
exposing me to my essentials, salt, i am elemental
catlike with a wolf’s heart, teeth bared but with
an expression of love from my chest
inspiring the wind with each note i chant
and the sound of it breaks blocks
sonic waves make savory laps over my surface, jiggling apart the rocky exterior
rocks jump around like little beans on my body
scattering themselves on the ground until i can’t tell the difference
the division makes me black and blue and I weep for lost time
the whore-moans driving me mad, then quiet, a glance to the pane, reflecting
IV. Conjunction
watching the leaves fan themselves, the hot waves roll of my body
each side takes its turn to bask in the light, under the moon
I flip from side to side, wanting both to be at once
smooth to rough and back again
soaking up the radiance
compounding myself into moon sugar
my sweet words melt into the soil
V. Fermentation
a low boil under Inanna’s gaze, rising in slow hot bubbles
expiring a distinct smell, the smell of change, a spicey vinegar bursting at the top
it starts in my brain, pulsing until
it overtakes my thoughts with fevered imperative
nothing is safe from the force of it
nothing is sacred here
I turn forty
VI. Distillation
and then the cool morning comes to me, settling
clouds repose
rest may finally come except the low buzz of the possibility that it might take this time
VII. Coagulation
clotting around each lid
touching like ouroboros
lash to lash
in my ears, the sonorous tock of
twining loops of time
a stiff patina unifies the broken
days with the texture of a sharp drum
beat grooving my heart
a swift crescent shape sweeps the sky
filling itself full of stars
matching my mouth, growing into an awed oh
i go to sleep to travel back in time
to tell my son i love him
to warn him of what the future will bring
i navigate his age before and now
i make myself back into the same mother i was then
so as not to raise alarm, i hold his toys in my arms,
looking directly into his eyes, to see the ef ect i am having as I speak
is he listening? he is wise beyond his years now
I leave him and move to the ice chest
only to find a smaller more impossible ice chest, one inside the other
the smaller chest gives up a secret warmth
a pitcher of oil: hot, golden, healing
to absolve myself I suppose
i anoint my beating heart, soft and muscular at the same time
slippery under my fingers, as they start to tingle with life
feeling the fire once again
just before the icey night was going to make off with me
I feel the hands of my sisters sitting with me at the fire
I turn forty-eight
and yet, I don’t know myself
this flat passionless version,
not yet feeling the effects of the oil
and my own loving hands on my heart.
Jeanne Garrett
Still Life, archival pigment print
17" x 21"
$300
Still Life, archival pigment print
17" x 21"
$300
My Lovely Plant
…ekphrastic, plant on table
Such a pretty plant. Not that I knew its name.
I seldom remember the fancy scientific monikers.
Now, buds had appeared. Hooray. Soon,
if winter held off awhile, we’d have flowers.
Every morning I filled the big steel bowl on that table
with seed. Then, I brought my coffee and sat to watch
the birds. Nuthatches, Mountain Chickadees, and once
in awhile, large noisy Blue Jays stopped for breakfast.
The birds cleaned the pan quickly. The fluttering
visitors brought such a cheerful feel to our porch.
Two mason jars held starts from fancy plants (which
I couldn’t name), some that our neighbor sent. I was
curious what would emerge. Some days my neighbor
carried her cup of tea, sat with me to watch.
In time, winds picked up, and a coolness touched us.
Soon I’d take my plant inside, place it by the window,
hope the sun would bring out colorful blooms.
I still fed the birds. However, something else felt winter’s
approach. Out of the woods came the deer, searching
for a meal, now that early snow covered the grasses.
So one morning, as I came on the porch, bundled in a wool
poncho, I was shocked. My gorgeous, almost-blooming
plant had been nibbled to a nub. The deer had supped.
That day, the plant came inside, along with the bottled starts.
I continued giving the birds their breakfast. They had to eat
quick, to finish before deer sniffed out food. I added a pan
of water that formed an ice skim daily. At least I could enjoy
the birds, and besides, I had to admit the deer were here first.
It was their land we inhabited.
by Gail Denham
…ekphrastic, plant on table
Such a pretty plant. Not that I knew its name.
I seldom remember the fancy scientific monikers.
Now, buds had appeared. Hooray. Soon,
if winter held off awhile, we’d have flowers.
Every morning I filled the big steel bowl on that table
with seed. Then, I brought my coffee and sat to watch
the birds. Nuthatches, Mountain Chickadees, and once
in awhile, large noisy Blue Jays stopped for breakfast.
The birds cleaned the pan quickly. The fluttering
visitors brought such a cheerful feel to our porch.
Two mason jars held starts from fancy plants (which
I couldn’t name), some that our neighbor sent. I was
curious what would emerge. Some days my neighbor
carried her cup of tea, sat with me to watch.
In time, winds picked up, and a coolness touched us.
Soon I’d take my plant inside, place it by the window,
hope the sun would bring out colorful blooms.
I still fed the birds. However, something else felt winter’s
approach. Out of the woods came the deer, searching
for a meal, now that early snow covered the grasses.
So one morning, as I came on the porch, bundled in a wool
poncho, I was shocked. My gorgeous, almost-blooming
plant had been nibbled to a nub. The deer had supped.
That day, the plant came inside, along with the bottled starts.
I continued giving the birds their breakfast. They had to eat
quick, to finish before deer sniffed out food. I added a pan
of water that formed an ice skim daily. At least I could enjoy
the birds, and besides, I had to admit the deer were here first.
It was their land we inhabited.
by Gail Denham
Beth Gollan
Gathering, paper collage
Image size: 8.5" w. by 10" h.
$175
Gathering, paper collage
Image size: 8.5" w. by 10" h.
$175
Gathering
Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today
to celebrate the past through a composite of colors.
Grayscale apartment buildings and shadowy, indistinct
figures line the boardwalk under a muted sky
while vibrant colors contrast a stone sculpture
and children in a Victorian photograph
are partially submerged in iridescent water.
The kaleidoscopic effect of the imagery
evokes a feeling of rebirth and renewal
and a new day of freedom heralded
by songbirds and soaring butterflies.
by Carole Novak
Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today
to celebrate the past through a composite of colors.
Grayscale apartment buildings and shadowy, indistinct
figures line the boardwalk under a muted sky
while vibrant colors contrast a stone sculpture
and children in a Victorian photograph
are partially submerged in iridescent water.
The kaleidoscopic effect of the imagery
evokes a feeling of rebirth and renewal
and a new day of freedom heralded
by songbirds and soaring butterflies.
by Carole Novak
Beth Gollan
Lucky, paper collage
Image size: 6" w. by 7.5" h.
$125
Lucky, paper collage
Image size: 6" w. by 7.5" h.
$125
Lucky
Lucky in love
Lucky penny
It's your lucky day
Feeling lucky?
Want to get lucky?
He loves me
He loves me not
He loves me
He loves me not
Just my luck
I'm out of luck
It's at times like these
that I reach for my girlfriends....
to know that I am
lucky still
and to remain lucky
requires nothing but secrecy....
by Barbara Eaton
Lucky in love
Lucky penny
It's your lucky day
Feeling lucky?
Want to get lucky?
He loves me
He loves me not
He loves me
He loves me not
Just my luck
I'm out of luck
It's at times like these
that I reach for my girlfriends....
to know that I am
lucky still
and to remain lucky
requires nothing but secrecy....
by Barbara Eaton
Jennifer Hauser
Choir Rehearsal at the Old Elm Tree, ink and colored pencil on primed masonite
6" x 6"
$150
Choir Rehearsal at the Old Elm Tree, ink and colored pencil on primed masonite
6" x 6"
$150
Music in the Glen
Spring is now out the door and summer is brushing her hair,
waiting for the Woodland Concert to begin.
Lightning is chased away and replaced by rainbows for visual effect.
Seating is available for the winged and four-legged audience -
logs, twigs, pebbles or mounds of velvet moss.
Moon has a view over green tree tops.
Inside the oak tree, mouse choir nervously awaits the arrival of Director Homer,
who received his name by being born near a ball park.
He arrives - a bow to the audience – his baton is raised and the concert begins
with harmony throughout the Glen.
.
Next performance is the Fall Harvest Ball -
(slight pause)
lighting provided by an Orange Moon.
Author: Marie Asner 2023
ISPS
Overland Park, Kansas
Spring is now out the door and summer is brushing her hair,
waiting for the Woodland Concert to begin.
Lightning is chased away and replaced by rainbows for visual effect.
Seating is available for the winged and four-legged audience -
logs, twigs, pebbles or mounds of velvet moss.
Moon has a view over green tree tops.
Inside the oak tree, mouse choir nervously awaits the arrival of Director Homer,
who received his name by being born near a ball park.
He arrives - a bow to the audience – his baton is raised and the concert begins
with harmony throughout the Glen.
.
Next performance is the Fall Harvest Ball -
(slight pause)
lighting provided by an Orange Moon.
Author: Marie Asner 2023
ISPS
Overland Park, Kansas
Jennifer Hauser
The Tallest of Trees, ink and colored pencil on primed masonite
3" x 17"
$170
The Tallest of Trees, ink and colored pencil on primed masonite
3" x 17"
$170
SYCAMORE ROW
The storm lasts 10 minutes at best.
Howling winds pull neighbors from dinner
to doorsteps to glimpse the violence.
Leaves, twigs, trash lids, a child’s stuffed bear
whirl past, hail slamming roofs, car alarms
screaming, while branches reel and thrash.
Then, as if in sacrifice, one of the mammoth trees
that oversees our street cracks in half,
crashing through chaos with a thud,
taking no one and nothing with it.
American sycamore, Platanus occidentalis,
known for bark that strips, bone-white limbs
beseeching skies. The mottled giants form
a 100-foot arch over our block,
entwining odds and evens.
The storm turns off as suddenly as it began,
and neighbors descend stairs to inspect the damage.
Fallen, we see the tree was hollow all along,
grotto wide enough for coons and possums to hole up,
a store of spilled acorns, cozy nest of foliage.
A sycamore trademark, a neighbor explains.
As the trees age, fungus consumes the dead, central wood,
what botanists call “heartwood.”
This makes me love them even more.
For anyone who has not yet known the cavernous echo
of their own heart beating despite, pumping despite
will soon enough be hollowed,
only to find themselves filled despite to bursting,
if they can make a dwelling of their loss.
The sun is setting, turning sycamore branches
a warm amber. Hundreds of swallows circle
overhead, swooping and gliding, then
a dozen of the fist-size birds pitch into
a hole in the tree nearest me.
Listening, I hear the roaring noise
of birds settling within.
By Maggie Kennedy
Note: The tree in J. Hauser’s delightful painting does not appear to be a sycamore. A sycamore’s leaves
are five-pointed and look like hands. But the painting made me think of the sycamores on our street.
The storm lasts 10 minutes at best.
Howling winds pull neighbors from dinner
to doorsteps to glimpse the violence.
Leaves, twigs, trash lids, a child’s stuffed bear
whirl past, hail slamming roofs, car alarms
screaming, while branches reel and thrash.
Then, as if in sacrifice, one of the mammoth trees
that oversees our street cracks in half,
crashing through chaos with a thud,
taking no one and nothing with it.
American sycamore, Platanus occidentalis,
known for bark that strips, bone-white limbs
beseeching skies. The mottled giants form
a 100-foot arch over our block,
entwining odds and evens.
The storm turns off as suddenly as it began,
and neighbors descend stairs to inspect the damage.
Fallen, we see the tree was hollow all along,
grotto wide enough for coons and possums to hole up,
a store of spilled acorns, cozy nest of foliage.
A sycamore trademark, a neighbor explains.
As the trees age, fungus consumes the dead, central wood,
what botanists call “heartwood.”
This makes me love them even more.
For anyone who has not yet known the cavernous echo
of their own heart beating despite, pumping despite
will soon enough be hollowed,
only to find themselves filled despite to bursting,
if they can make a dwelling of their loss.
The sun is setting, turning sycamore branches
a warm amber. Hundreds of swallows circle
overhead, swooping and gliding, then
a dozen of the fist-size birds pitch into
a hole in the tree nearest me.
Listening, I hear the roaring noise
of birds settling within.
By Maggie Kennedy
Note: The tree in J. Hauser’s delightful painting does not appear to be a sycamore. A sycamore’s leaves
are five-pointed and look like hands. But the painting made me think of the sycamores on our street.
Hanh Nguyen
Wings of Joy, mixed media on canvas
12" x 12"
$150
Wings of Joy, mixed media on canvas
12" x 12"
$150
A Love Remembered
A melody secreted from the past
is lingering inside me. Neural fires
rekindle, frolic, titillate, and cast
your fleeting image on my eyes. Desires
awaken, musings fill my memory:
your voice and violins, a blossoming
of lovers, lilacs, and the mystery
of woodlands come to life, the early spring
ablush in verdancy, your perfumed skin
arousing passion in my soul, your smile
an artist's masterpiece as doves begin
to serenade, to flatter and beguile
in waves of soothing choruses, sublime
attendants to my moments back in time.
by Paul Buchheit
A melody secreted from the past
is lingering inside me. Neural fires
rekindle, frolic, titillate, and cast
your fleeting image on my eyes. Desires
awaken, musings fill my memory:
your voice and violins, a blossoming
of lovers, lilacs, and the mystery
of woodlands come to life, the early spring
ablush in verdancy, your perfumed skin
arousing passion in my soul, your smile
an artist's masterpiece as doves begin
to serenade, to flatter and beguile
in waves of soothing choruses, sublime
attendants to my moments back in time.
by Paul Buchheit
Sharon Peters
Idyllic Place, oil on canvas
16" x 20"
$375
Idyllic Place, oil on canvas
16" x 20"
$375
Two Becoming One
by Michael Escoubas
after Idyllic Place—Oil on canvas
It must start somewhere, you know,
this becoming, this growing from youthful bliss.
How fragrant the summer day, the plush grass,
waterlilies drifting in pink tranquility.
Sunfish kiss the pool’s surface, polliwogs
snuggle near the water’s edge. The wind,
whispering from a nearby willow tree, nudges
the two of you into ever-closer harmony.
Is the meadow singing? This music, this duet
of two eyes synchronized, two hands trembling,
two hearts in bloom as the sun chases clouds,
two minds dreaming their wedding night.
But this becoming, this interlacing of lives--
will it meet the test of two-in-one when times
turn bad? When the meadow has gone to seed,
what song will the willow tree sing?
by Michael Escoubas
after Idyllic Place—Oil on canvas
It must start somewhere, you know,
this becoming, this growing from youthful bliss.
How fragrant the summer day, the plush grass,
waterlilies drifting in pink tranquility.
Sunfish kiss the pool’s surface, polliwogs
snuggle near the water’s edge. The wind,
whispering from a nearby willow tree, nudges
the two of you into ever-closer harmony.
Is the meadow singing? This music, this duet
of two eyes synchronized, two hands trembling,
two hearts in bloom as the sun chases clouds,
two minds dreaming their wedding night.
But this becoming, this interlacing of lives--
will it meet the test of two-in-one when times
turn bad? When the meadow has gone to seed,
what song will the willow tree sing?
Sharon Peters
Life's Wonder (Great Grey Owl), oil on canvas
16" x 20"
$375
Life's Wonder (Great Grey Owl), oil on canvas
16" x 20"
$375
THE OWL
~ Idella Pearl Edwards
While other birds fly with noisy flapping,
The owl has a silent flight.
It softly glides its way through the air
Into the still of the night.
This silent flight is a symbol of peace,
The absence of turmoil and strife.
It gives us hope for graceful passage
Through the trials and troubles of life.
The owl’s listening skills are finely tuned
Its sensitive ears hear all.
We too can master the art of listening,
As we strive to hear God’s call.
Look closely at the owl and you will see
Wisdom in its round saucer eyes.
“O majestic owl, show us the way.
Teach us and make us wise.”
The owl cries out, “Who! Who! Who!”
The answer, of course, is, “Me!”
I’ll be the one to learn from the owl
And be all I can be.
~ Idella Pearl Edwards
While other birds fly with noisy flapping,
The owl has a silent flight.
It softly glides its way through the air
Into the still of the night.
This silent flight is a symbol of peace,
The absence of turmoil and strife.
It gives us hope for graceful passage
Through the trials and troubles of life.
The owl’s listening skills are finely tuned
Its sensitive ears hear all.
We too can master the art of listening,
As we strive to hear God’s call.
Look closely at the owl and you will see
Wisdom in its round saucer eyes.
“O majestic owl, show us the way.
Teach us and make us wise.”
The owl cries out, “Who! Who! Who!”
The answer, of course, is, “Me!”
I’ll be the one to learn from the owl
And be all I can be.
Sharon Peters
Symbol of Love, oil on canvas
16" x 20"
$525
Symbol of Love, oil on canvas
16" x 20"
$525
A Rose
A rose I find in beauty
precious and exquisite
blooming in the garden
from a delicate rosebud
that caught my eyes
exuding a radiant pose
with a sweet aroma scenery
carrying through the air
freshly flourishing view
red soft petal caressing
symbolizes for passion
as your favorite pick
so vividly to the memory
filled with nourishing care
of love and admiration
like a plant seed growing inside
of me through the years
of untold
that I share
for you my darling
as I call
Written By: Hanh Chau
A rose I find in beauty
precious and exquisite
blooming in the garden
from a delicate rosebud
that caught my eyes
exuding a radiant pose
with a sweet aroma scenery
carrying through the air
freshly flourishing view
red soft petal caressing
symbolizes for passion
as your favorite pick
so vividly to the memory
filled with nourishing care
of love and admiration
like a plant seed growing inside
of me through the years
of untold
that I share
for you my darling
as I call
Written By: Hanh Chau
Nancy Staszak
Crow's Feast, collage on cradle board
8" x 8"
$100
Crow's Feast, collage on cradle board
8" x 8"
$100
Five Haiku
Thomas Chockley
a murder of crows
ranging the sea beach
darkest before dawn
cracking the sky
black chasms
of crow croaks
crow’s nest
a bracelet charm
bright but broken
shivering
among crow caws
a solstice chant
wet silence
residue of a crow call
in the mist
Thomas Chockley
a murder of crows
ranging the sea beach
darkest before dawn
cracking the sky
black chasms
of crow croaks
crow’s nest
a bracelet charm
bright but broken
shivering
among crow caws
a solstice chant
wet silence
residue of a crow call
in the mist
Nancy Staszak
Entrance to the Fragrance Garden, watercolor
8" x 10"
NFS
Entrance to the Fragrance Garden, watercolor
8" x 10"
NFS
Nancy Ann Schaefer created a poem for the above art work, but reserves the right for the poem to remain unpublished at this time. You can read the poem while the exhibit is on view at the ACA gallery through March 18, 2023.
Lyn Tietz
Hot Air Balloons, oil on canvas
14" x 18"
$395
Hot Air Balloons, oil on canvas
14" x 18"
$395
Hot Air Balloon
In a dream-woven basket,
we lift away from the fabric
of ordinary days, unbutton
our gaze from familiar horizons.
A blue bolt of sky unfolds
as we travel on the wind's
half-mile-high, unmarked road,
drifting above beaded clusters
of trees and houses,
a narrow ribbon of river,
then the raw-edged majesty
of mountains—their pleated
and gathered folds of granite
hemmed with clouds:
earth-bound art
from a bird’s-eye view.
Kathy Lohrum Cotton
Anna, Illinois
In a dream-woven basket,
we lift away from the fabric
of ordinary days, unbutton
our gaze from familiar horizons.
A blue bolt of sky unfolds
as we travel on the wind's
half-mile-high, unmarked road,
drifting above beaded clusters
of trees and houses,
a narrow ribbon of river,
then the raw-edged majesty
of mountains—their pleated
and gathered folds of granite
hemmed with clouds:
earth-bound art
from a bird’s-eye view.
Kathy Lohrum Cotton
Anna, Illinois
Lyn Tietz
Togetherness, oil on canvas
16" x 20"
$395
Togetherness, oil on canvas
16" x 20"
$395
Connection
I feel your cheek against mine,
your breath of dandelion and tuna.
We play together among lilies
yapping and meowing in the wind,
making songs into the rolling air.
I howl for comfort
you sing out to the wildlife and butterflies.
We chase them in the fields
through the day
and lounge at night.
Our play tapers at twilight
when we listen to the stars, together.
--Carole Bolinski
I feel your cheek against mine,
your breath of dandelion and tuna.
We play together among lilies
yapping and meowing in the wind,
making songs into the rolling air.
I howl for comfort
you sing out to the wildlife and butterflies.
We chase them in the fields
through the day
and lounge at night.
Our play tapers at twilight
when we listen to the stars, together.
--Carole Bolinski
Benjamin Calvert III
Three Muses, woodblock relief print
12" x 12"
Three Muses, woodblock relief print
12" x 12"
Sheila Elliott created a poem for the above art work, but reserves the right for the poem to remain unpublished at this time. You can read the poem while the exhibit is on view at the ACA gallery through March 18, 2023.
Susan Cargill
Chicago Botanic Garden Tea House, acrylic
18" x 15.5"
$150
Chicago Botanic Garden Tea House, acrylic
18" x 15.5"
$150
Reflections
Though a moat of water and ice limit him physically,
they do not deter him —he crosses the threshold of 2023
anew—the sadness and anger of the last two years replaced
by an acceptance of what is.
He opens the shoji screen, inhales the fresh scent
of snow, the piney smell of the large black trees.
Though he cannot see, he feels the lightness
of the moon on his face,
remembers its look on the landscape. Closing the screen,
he carries his hot Hojica back to the kotasu table,
inhales the tea’s sweet fragrance, its hint of cocoa.
He walks through the garden in his mind.
He finds it soothing to know the open arms
of his pines. He thinks of them as ancestors,
the anchors he counts on to move forward.
Just so, the evergreen shrubs, pruned and rounded
all these years to resemble the miniature hills
and mountains he’s climbed. He runs his hands
over them, some bristly, others soft as moss.
What good friends they’ve been.
Though he had always courted simplicity,
he could not have known the blankness of blind.
Sometime this past December, he realized
the light must come from within.
He is back to beginnings—black and white,
horizonal and vertical, life and death,
intuits how they are the whole of life.
He thinks he may have known this as a newborn.
Memory cushions him in this altered life, pushes
him outward to experience again all he loves.
He thinks of the maples planted when the house
was built. They tower above it today.
Tonight, he is content, feeling solidarity
with everything he loves. He hears the temple bell,
its ring, his call to sleep.
He has everything he needs.
Mary Jo Balistreri
Waukesha, WI 53188
Though a moat of water and ice limit him physically,
they do not deter him —he crosses the threshold of 2023
anew—the sadness and anger of the last two years replaced
by an acceptance of what is.
He opens the shoji screen, inhales the fresh scent
of snow, the piney smell of the large black trees.
Though he cannot see, he feels the lightness
of the moon on his face,
remembers its look on the landscape. Closing the screen,
he carries his hot Hojica back to the kotasu table,
inhales the tea’s sweet fragrance, its hint of cocoa.
He walks through the garden in his mind.
He finds it soothing to know the open arms
of his pines. He thinks of them as ancestors,
the anchors he counts on to move forward.
Just so, the evergreen shrubs, pruned and rounded
all these years to resemble the miniature hills
and mountains he’s climbed. He runs his hands
over them, some bristly, others soft as moss.
What good friends they’ve been.
Though he had always courted simplicity,
he could not have known the blankness of blind.
Sometime this past December, he realized
the light must come from within.
He is back to beginnings—black and white,
horizonal and vertical, life and death,
intuits how they are the whole of life.
He thinks he may have known this as a newborn.
Memory cushions him in this altered life, pushes
him outward to experience again all he loves.
He thinks of the maples planted when the house
was built. They tower above it today.
Tonight, he is content, feeling solidarity
with everything he loves. He hears the temple bell,
its ring, his call to sleep.
He has everything he needs.
Mary Jo Balistreri
Waukesha, WI 53188
Andrea Fox
Dream of Moonlight and Love Songs, mixed media
$500
Dream of Moonlight and Love Songs, mixed media
$500
Metamorphosis
what silent song would a flower sing
that a butterfly could also dream
what winged whispers would a dragonfly send
to its love in the moonlit gleam
so temporary, so fleeting is this collection
of unwitting beings, transformed
the faded woman understands--
her twilight is the one she mourns
a veiled and wistful shadow
a full dream of sleep, she spins
but savors now this moment caught
before the waning begins
Karian Markos
what silent song would a flower sing
that a butterfly could also dream
what winged whispers would a dragonfly send
to its love in the moonlit gleam
so temporary, so fleeting is this collection
of unwitting beings, transformed
the faded woman understands--
her twilight is the one she mourns
a veiled and wistful shadow
a full dream of sleep, she spins
but savors now this moment caught
before the waning begins
Karian Markos
Andrea Fox
Belle Natur, mixed media
$600
Belle Natur, mixed media
$600
This place by M.E. Hope
Light catches leaves, then feathers, birds reach out to touch her,
the breeze stifles its endless whisper to listen. Blossoms,
pine needles line that path, that entry into the deep.
Clouds pull back, a curtain of light opens further, shows the way.
Birds dive, alive with each turn, each wingbeat lifts heat,
settles dust. Moths haloed, butterflies their flutter of wings
is like a book shuffling shut. See the tree shudder when she walks
by, how she is grateful in return. What she carries what she holds
is alive, vibrant in its thousand colors, innumerable shapes, shades.
A need displayed. And then listen: birdsong, leaf music,
a humming symphony. Hues force you into the fold of each
flower: violet, indigo, gold, garnet where more realms unfold.
Your face is close to the bees, competing for this whole world
that doesn’t need, as you need this place, this place. This place.
Light catches leaves, then feathers, birds reach out to touch her,
the breeze stifles its endless whisper to listen. Blossoms,
pine needles line that path, that entry into the deep.
Clouds pull back, a curtain of light opens further, shows the way.
Birds dive, alive with each turn, each wingbeat lifts heat,
settles dust. Moths haloed, butterflies their flutter of wings
is like a book shuffling shut. See the tree shudder when she walks
by, how she is grateful in return. What she carries what she holds
is alive, vibrant in its thousand colors, innumerable shapes, shades.
A need displayed. And then listen: birdsong, leaf music,
a humming symphony. Hues force you into the fold of each
flower: violet, indigo, gold, garnet where more realms unfold.
Your face is close to the bees, competing for this whole world
that doesn’t need, as you need this place, this place. This place.
Joan Ladendorf
Sunrise, digital photo collage
12" x 24"
$150
Sunrise, digital photo collage
12" x 24"
$150
Watching Sunrise on the Mountain
Only at this height
one can see
the serene face of the world
after a full night's sleep
The clouds are so light
The wind is so gentle
there's not a single trace
of nightmares
by William Marr
Only at this height
one can see
the serene face of the world
after a full night's sleep
The clouds are so light
The wind is so gentle
there's not a single trace
of nightmares
by William Marr
Joan Ladendorf
Waiting, digital photo collage
24" x 12"
$150
Waiting, digital photo collage
24" x 12"
$150
“ For, the experience of each new age requires a new confession,
and the world seems always waiting for its poet.” Ralph Waldo Emerson.
The Restorers
Full-faced above the valley
stood two moons
in skies brushed black by oil.
Here sedges have withered
from the lake
and no birds sing
We have lost our way
Forged as green granite,
we are seven, steeled,
facing a cavernous tomorrow.
Darkly we gaze into the days ahead.
The sky is low, the clouds are mean.
We stand side-by-side,
not stratified,
to mend, to tend,
dawn's early light
unseen.
Judy Kassouf Cummings
Poet's Statement: The image “Waiting” #57 is described as a photo collage. I chose to imitate
this artistic style by borrowing from other written works and interlacing
these into a whole. The poem, The Restorers, is a literary assemblage of
poems, a song and a speech ( indicated below) pieced together with other
thoughts suggested to me as a result of this artwork. Italics indicate lines
borrowed.
Introduction: RALPH WALDO EMERSON: Essay Second Series – The Poet
line 1&2 The Lotus Eaters (modified) Alfred Lord Tennyson
line 4-6 La Belle Dame Sans Merci (modified) John Keats
line 7 The Great Dictator's Final Speech Charlie Chaplin
line 9 We are Seven William Wordsworth
line 11 America Claude McKay
line 12 The Sky Is Low Emily Dickinson
line 16 The Star Spangled Banner Frances Scott Key
and the world seems always waiting for its poet.” Ralph Waldo Emerson.
The Restorers
Full-faced above the valley
stood two moons
in skies brushed black by oil.
Here sedges have withered
from the lake
and no birds sing
We have lost our way
Forged as green granite,
we are seven, steeled,
facing a cavernous tomorrow.
Darkly we gaze into the days ahead.
The sky is low, the clouds are mean.
We stand side-by-side,
not stratified,
to mend, to tend,
dawn's early light
unseen.
Judy Kassouf Cummings
Poet's Statement: The image “Waiting” #57 is described as a photo collage. I chose to imitate
this artistic style by borrowing from other written works and interlacing
these into a whole. The poem, The Restorers, is a literary assemblage of
poems, a song and a speech ( indicated below) pieced together with other
thoughts suggested to me as a result of this artwork. Italics indicate lines
borrowed.
Introduction: RALPH WALDO EMERSON: Essay Second Series – The Poet
line 1&2 The Lotus Eaters (modified) Alfred Lord Tennyson
line 4-6 La Belle Dame Sans Merci (modified) John Keats
line 7 The Great Dictator's Final Speech Charlie Chaplin
line 9 We are Seven William Wordsworth
line 11 America Claude McKay
line 12 The Sky Is Low Emily Dickinson
line 16 The Star Spangled Banner Frances Scott Key
Sindee Viano
My Journey, mixed media
20" x 20"
$295
My Journey, mixed media
20" x 20"
$295
My Journey
Halfway through the journey
I found out who I was
A person so busy trying to be
who she’s supposed to be
has no time to figure out
who she is
Too busy being
considerate
compliant ...
complicit?
leaving no time for
self-examination
self-appreciation
personal growth
I stared into a mirror
with a vision of who
I might be
I could be
I wished to be
but that person
was always there
staring back
sending me a message
to replace duty
consideration
compliance
with illumination
by Judith MK Kaufman
Halfway through the journey
I found out who I was
A person so busy trying to be
who she’s supposed to be
has no time to figure out
who she is
Too busy being
considerate
compliant ...
complicit?
leaving no time for
self-examination
self-appreciation
personal growth
I stared into a mirror
with a vision of who
I might be
I could be
I wished to be
but that person
was always there
staring back
sending me a message
to replace duty
consideration
compliance
with illumination
by Judith MK Kaufman
Ana Vitek
1 Door, acrylic on canvas
11.5" x 11.5"
NFS
1 Door, acrylic on canvas
11.5" x 11.5"
NFS
The Garden Gate
Curt Vevang
Gates exist to keep us out,
while some
are a doorway
for those bold enough to enter.
This gate opens to a garden full of the riches of the world.
Riches of joy, happiness and contentment all existing within
an idyllic floral garden living in unison with croaking frogs,
noisy petunias, and whispering willows.
When you bring positive thoughts into this special garden,
words of sorrow can become thoughts of promise,
words of joy can be transformed into thankfulness
and words of hate can become stepping stones to kindness.
Those bold enough to push open the squeaky
garden gate will find they are in a magic garden
of better understanding where hurts can be mended,
prejudices dispelled, and hearts gladdened.
The open gate allows us to see
the garden and the world
in a different light, a light tempered
by the joy, beauty and serenity of the garden.
Curt Vevang
Gates exist to keep us out,
while some
are a doorway
for those bold enough to enter.
This gate opens to a garden full of the riches of the world.
Riches of joy, happiness and contentment all existing within
an idyllic floral garden living in unison with croaking frogs,
noisy petunias, and whispering willows.
When you bring positive thoughts into this special garden,
words of sorrow can become thoughts of promise,
words of joy can be transformed into thankfulness
and words of hate can become stepping stones to kindness.
Those bold enough to push open the squeaky
garden gate will find they are in a magic garden
of better understanding where hurts can be mended,
prejudices dispelled, and hearts gladdened.
The open gate allows us to see
the garden and the world
in a different light, a light tempered
by the joy, beauty and serenity of the garden.
Margaret Bucholz
Golden Corn Worm, colored pencil
18" x 14"
$125
Golden Corn Worm, colored pencil
18" x 14"
$125
The Earworm Defends Itself
Mother laid me—still an egg--
in a silken crib which I ate
once I hatched.
When the corn silk was gone,
I explored the area, biting into
golden kernels
or into the cob. A sibling
was born next to me,
I’ate it too,
so as to have no competition.
Farmers hate me, saying I destroy
their crops.
If I escape the grasp
of a downy woodpecker,
the hateful
impact of poisonous pesticides
or a few drops of mineral oil,
I’ll drop off
into the soil and pupate,
eventually becoming a mother
myself, ready
to start a new generation.
If you’re honest, you have to admit
I’m attractive,
and I don’t eat whole cobs
of corn. Let’s make peace
and share.
~ Wilda Morris
Mother laid me—still an egg--
in a silken crib which I ate
once I hatched.
When the corn silk was gone,
I explored the area, biting into
golden kernels
or into the cob. A sibling
was born next to me,
I’ate it too,
so as to have no competition.
Farmers hate me, saying I destroy
their crops.
If I escape the grasp
of a downy woodpecker,
the hateful
impact of poisonous pesticides
or a few drops of mineral oil,
I’ll drop off
into the soil and pupate,
eventually becoming a mother
myself, ready
to start a new generation.
If you’re honest, you have to admit
I’m attractive,
and I don’t eat whole cobs
of corn. Let’s make peace
and share.
~ Wilda Morris
Margaret Bucholz
Pony Rides at Sunny Acres Farm, watercolor
20" x 16"
$200
Pony Rides at Sunny Acres Farm, watercolor
20" x 16"
$200
Ponies
Mark Hudson
Remember the day of nature’s charms?
In the innocent days of pony rides!
Pony rides at Sunny Acres Farm,
an innocent world for a child.
Those days seem like eons ago,
in days when children got to be young.
Till the time when children grow,
ponies were something to be among.
Laughter, innocence of youth,
happy children on a horse.
Better than reading the Phantom Tollbooth,
surely this is a tour de force.
Riding ponies in the warmth of the sun,
remembering the days when life was fun.
Mark Hudson
Remember the day of nature’s charms?
In the innocent days of pony rides!
Pony rides at Sunny Acres Farm,
an innocent world for a child.
Those days seem like eons ago,
in days when children got to be young.
Till the time when children grow,
ponies were something to be among.
Laughter, innocence of youth,
happy children on a horse.
Better than reading the Phantom Tollbooth,
surely this is a tour de force.
Riding ponies in the warmth of the sun,
remembering the days when life was fun.
Margaret Bucholz
Dancing with Paint, acrylic
24" x 18"
$250
Dancing with Paint, acrylic
24" x 18"
$250
After Dancing by René Parks
Patti Smith on what matters in art: “the string of words propelled by God becoming a poem, the weave
of color and graphite scrawled upon the sheet that magnifies His motion. To achieve within the work a
perfect balance of faith and execution. From this state of mind comes a light, life-charged.”
She, Patti Smith, was there in my dream last night, making art with me
i was tossing and turning between yoga nidra and mis-guided meditations but
had somehow fallen back to sleep without knowing:
my skin simmering under a sheet and three blankets,
first pressing my back onto the back of my curled up girl
and then twisting myself into a spoon around her
scooting down and then back up again, shimmying toward the deep dark.
take me, please, cosmic obliteration
i didn’t know that my eyes had even closed
but they had
and there She was: Patti’s a wise teacher, She knows what works
not saying but saying, you know
Her voice rang clear and authentic
(familiar because i’ve listened to Her for hours, reading books
whispery memoirs, like sharing coffee with a dear friend, catching up on the intimate details of Her life
i took Her as my mentor from afar)
but in the dream, as we walked, She made suggestions
juxtaposing images in conspiratorial collage
smacking together the unexpected, watching disparate images bloom up into some new thing
we continued creating every few steps, walking around the room, like a collage path, a museum walk
She accompanied me, perhaps it’s the way of the artist
beckoning beauty from the humdrum.
Patti’s tall figure guided me while i swooned over what we’d made:
oh Patti, i see You knowing Yourself, beautiful
teach me to be tall
teach me to sway the way You do
show me s'il te plaît
so we can slide across the page together, in that quiet direct way You have
joining muse and medium, springing poetics in long leaps
in the look of Your face, in the speak of Your words
it’s a dreamy dance, where i can see the expanse of Your life knowing i am witness to Your becoming and
then measuring what is left of my own to see what I might be
if there is enough left and i know there is not, to be a cultural icon.
so, i return myself again to this moment
it’s all i have really, and so i dig,
feeling my way with the rhythm, a slow slap on the head of a drum, a toe wiggle
in the messed up sheets and bed clothes
the thrum of my dogs heart, the knots in the hairs on the back of my head as proof of the song i sang
restless though it seems
sung in a gray-yellow dawn, before waking to the smell of stars still in my nose, hot and mineral, and
tasting the rocky energy in my mouth, crunching between my teeth, residual stardust leaving me dry like a
desert, thirsting after the harmonious moment
always, you know.
Patti Smith on what matters in art: “the string of words propelled by God becoming a poem, the weave
of color and graphite scrawled upon the sheet that magnifies His motion. To achieve within the work a
perfect balance of faith and execution. From this state of mind comes a light, life-charged.”
She, Patti Smith, was there in my dream last night, making art with me
i was tossing and turning between yoga nidra and mis-guided meditations but
had somehow fallen back to sleep without knowing:
my skin simmering under a sheet and three blankets,
first pressing my back onto the back of my curled up girl
and then twisting myself into a spoon around her
scooting down and then back up again, shimmying toward the deep dark.
take me, please, cosmic obliteration
i didn’t know that my eyes had even closed
but they had
and there She was: Patti’s a wise teacher, She knows what works
not saying but saying, you know
Her voice rang clear and authentic
(familiar because i’ve listened to Her for hours, reading books
whispery memoirs, like sharing coffee with a dear friend, catching up on the intimate details of Her life
i took Her as my mentor from afar)
but in the dream, as we walked, She made suggestions
juxtaposing images in conspiratorial collage
smacking together the unexpected, watching disparate images bloom up into some new thing
we continued creating every few steps, walking around the room, like a collage path, a museum walk
She accompanied me, perhaps it’s the way of the artist
beckoning beauty from the humdrum.
Patti’s tall figure guided me while i swooned over what we’d made:
oh Patti, i see You knowing Yourself, beautiful
teach me to be tall
teach me to sway the way You do
show me s'il te plaît
so we can slide across the page together, in that quiet direct way You have
joining muse and medium, springing poetics in long leaps
in the look of Your face, in the speak of Your words
it’s a dreamy dance, where i can see the expanse of Your life knowing i am witness to Your becoming and
then measuring what is left of my own to see what I might be
if there is enough left and i know there is not, to be a cultural icon.
so, i return myself again to this moment
it’s all i have really, and so i dig,
feeling my way with the rhythm, a slow slap on the head of a drum, a toe wiggle
in the messed up sheets and bed clothes
the thrum of my dogs heart, the knots in the hairs on the back of my head as proof of the song i sang
restless though it seems
sung in a gray-yellow dawn, before waking to the smell of stars still in my nose, hot and mineral, and
tasting the rocky energy in my mouth, crunching between my teeth, residual stardust leaving me dry like a
desert, thirsting after the harmonious moment
always, you know.
Ashley Ehrhardt
Grey Street, photography
$150
Grey Street, photography
$150
A Photograph from Where She Lives for Now
She recalls the dances, red dresses and
greens, brightest blues, yellows,
the happy walk back up the aisle,
shorter by miles than down,
his yin-yang tuxedo an accent
to her white bridal satins and lace.
And then he took the bright colors,
leaving her without them, without him,
and that was hard, the black and white,
and then those faded and gathered dust,
leaving her out of focus, petrifying her,
in her grayscale mirror, her greyscale life.
This is where the difficult stops,
where the dangerous begins
the long march to a destination
that haunts the wait before arrival,
that blade’s edge between the endless
am I through yet and I’m going home.
She recalls the dances, red dresses and
greens, brightest blues, yellows,
the happy walk back up the aisle,
shorter by miles than down,
his yin-yang tuxedo an accent
to her white bridal satins and lace.
And then he took the bright colors,
leaving her without them, without him,
and that was hard, the black and white,
and then those faded and gathered dust,
leaving her out of focus, petrifying her,
in her grayscale mirror, her greyscale life.
This is where the difficult stops,
where the dangerous begins
the long march to a destination
that haunts the wait before arrival,
that blade’s edge between the endless
am I through yet and I’m going home.
Ashley Ehrhardt
Hope, photography
$150
Hope, photography
$150
Hope
it may be the faintest prick of light
at the end of a looming tunnel
or dimmest glimmer in a dream
hope,
in the form of compassion
can heal so much pain
for the suffering
the lonely
the lost
the addicted
it is in the hand that reaches out –
stretching like taffy
to make that connection,
kindle that spark
until one day the light
grows closer,
grows brighter
mbbretzlauf 1.2.23
it may be the faintest prick of light
at the end of a looming tunnel
or dimmest glimmer in a dream
hope,
in the form of compassion
can heal so much pain
for the suffering
the lonely
the lost
the addicted
it is in the hand that reaches out –
stretching like taffy
to make that connection,
kindle that spark
until one day the light
grows closer,
grows brighter
mbbretzlauf 1.2.23
Tony Ilivanov
Bar Fly, oil on canvas
$320
Bar Fly, oil on canvas
$320
Drink
Tonight as I
sit and pour
another drink,
I start to think that
maybe
I’m really on the edge
standing too close
to the ledge of sorrow
wondering if I should even
plan on tomorrow
or just,
pour another drink
till I can no longer think
instead just fade away
by then
I’ll no longer care and
all that will be left
will be me
and my bottle…
2002 Lyrics of Our Lives
As contained in “Martini Talk” a chapbook on Womens addiction
Tonight as I
sit and pour
another drink,
I start to think that
maybe
I’m really on the edge
standing too close
to the ledge of sorrow
wondering if I should even
plan on tomorrow
or just,
pour another drink
till I can no longer think
instead just fade away
by then
I’ll no longer care and
all that will be left
will be me
and my bottle…
2002 Lyrics of Our Lives
As contained in “Martini Talk” a chapbook on Womens addiction
Tania Blanco
The Urgent Questions, collage on board
$200
The Urgent Questions, collage on board
$200
It’s Not My Problem
I keep amazed about the circle of life.
What’s my problem?
Is it an urgent question we all ask?
A never-ending quest for truth.
Many time, to justify our actions,
we ignore answers.
But, do we really know,
search or care for them?
Is it that we don’t know
what to give back when is needed.
For fear to stand up, walk-the-walk,
and righteously answer fundamental questions?
Tell me, oh, I want to hear the voices.
Because when I try to discern
between reality from dreams -Or else…-
I wish I could invent -discover at best –
the alphabet to answer this paradox:
What is our problem?
I wonder.
So, how many people in the world
cannot answer this question,
and say, “It is not my problem”, still.
And cannot find answers, still…
and prefer to walk away, still.
I wonder why. Tell me…Why.
Rafael Lantigua Medina
I keep amazed about the circle of life.
What’s my problem?
Is it an urgent question we all ask?
A never-ending quest for truth.
Many time, to justify our actions,
we ignore answers.
But, do we really know,
search or care for them?
Is it that we don’t know
what to give back when is needed.
For fear to stand up, walk-the-walk,
and righteously answer fundamental questions?
Tell me, oh, I want to hear the voices.
Because when I try to discern
between reality from dreams -Or else…-
I wish I could invent -discover at best –
the alphabet to answer this paradox:
What is our problem?
I wonder.
So, how many people in the world
cannot answer this question,
and say, “It is not my problem”, still.
And cannot find answers, still…
and prefer to walk away, still.
I wonder why. Tell me…Why.
Rafael Lantigua Medina
Thanks to these funding agencies for helping the Addison Center for the Arts bring the Arts to our community.
The Addison Center for the Arts acknowledges support from the Illinois Arts Council Agency, the National Endowment for the Arts, the DuPage Foundation, the Village of Addison, our corporate sponsors and members of the community. THANK YOU!
The Addison Center for the Arts acknowledges support from the Illinois Arts Council Agency, the National Endowment for the Arts, the DuPage Foundation, the Village of Addison, our corporate sponsors and members of the community. THANK YOU!
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