Saturday, December 12, 2015

SOLD ! Ode to the Dusk Painting by me and poem by Scott both in our book, In Tandem


ODE TO THE DUSK


People, like fire, burn at both ends
until all that has been borrowed on this earth
turns to ash.

Smoke and spirit mix in the twilight of our lives,
and the warrior sings one more ode to the dusk,
lifting voice with the nighthawk and coyote,
crying out to the amber light and turquoise sky.

He paints himself the color of sunset.



Tuesday, December 08, 2015

Saturday, December 05, 2015

A Few of my Favorite Things

Remember 'The Sound of Music?'  This painting was created after the song in that movie called , I think, 'Favorite Things."  Can you find some of the things from the song?
This is on auction this week.  you can bid, view or enter my ebay gallery here


Thursday, December 03, 2015

Spray of Cardinals

This painting and its corresponding poem were in our recent show in Tulsa, OK.  To bid or visit my ebay gallery, Click Here



SPRAY OF CARDINALS


Looking out my window to the backyard,
cup of coffee in hand,
winter apple tree, for an instant, seems ripe with fruit. 

It is a desire for the return of spring that brings on this illusion. 

Closer examination reveals
cardinals scattered among the branches.   

Their crimson silhouettes,
stand, most brilliant against the bleak, washed sky.

For months, I have looked out on this scene--
Grey sky,
grey fence,
grey branches. 

Rooftops of neighboring houses are degrees of grey. 

My eyes now, weary of grey, are delighted by this late winter offering. 

I become aware that I am cupping my coffee in both hands,
as though receiving Eucharist.

Then, in a flash of red, the tree ignites in winged flight.

Startled, I blink, and everything is the same again, only different. 
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Wednesday, December 02, 2015

Stepping into Fall

Another painting from our show with the poem, " We Walk," written by Scott Aycock
 


WE WALK


We are on retreat—
a cabin in the woods.

Leaving behind cell phones, and computers—
we walk.

The path is wide, clearly marked—
no getting lost.

We feel at ease on this unfamiliar path,
whereas, back home, in the city
familiarity seeds boredom,
and yes, sometimes resignation.
Trodden paths turn to ruts,
roots are exposed,
like fingers pointing.
We are lost.

For now, though,
in tandem,
we walk.
me in front
and then pausing
to observe a mushroom,
or catch my breath,
she will take the lead. 

Out here, cooperation, not competition,
Rules the day.
I offer a hand crossing a creek,
and stopping to rest,
she offers me water and a smile.

Still we are cautious, but curious.
New trails are like that,
only a hint of what lies ahead.
We walk.

It is mid-September and already,
the sun sits lower in the sky.
Slant light is warm, almost hot,
as the trail steers us into one of the many grassy clearings.





On this high plane
we walk
among blue stem, cacti, and crimson-crowned sumac.

The path gives way and dips into deep shadows.

I stop before wading into
                Pine—
                                Oak—
                                                Juniper.
She steps beside me,
her arm brushes mine.

Standing there, she whispers,
“can you feel it?  It’s like leaving summer and walking into fall.”

True, the heat gives way abruptly,
cool moist air rushes up the descending path.
Stepping under the canopy
there is a hushed silence.
Instinctively, I reach for her hand and
we walk.

SOLD! Peonies


Snakes Painting by me.... Poem by Scott

My husband, Scott and I recently had a month long show at a local gallery.  My husband is a poet, and I, of course, the painter.  Each painting had a corresponding poem.  This one had a great poem about a little boy falling asleep on a hot Sunday at church.    To visit my ebay gallery, click the link to gallery.
Gallery


SNAKES
                                                                                                                                                               

Sunday mornings
Southern Baptists
Summer heat
All those “S’s” hissing!

In the garden, preacher warned,
“Snakes will lull you to sleep.”

My head in grandmother’s lap

Twirling fans,
suspended from the ceiling.
Never pushing air enough…
sweating
                hearing voice,
not words…
                rising, falling
                    rising, falling.

The stroke of her fingers
tongue at my neck
in my ear
Hissing!

Preacher’s voice
distant and hollow
    as though listening underwater,                                          
to a voice calling
                softly, tenderly
                   rising, falling
                hissing in my ear
sleep. . . sleep. . .  ssssssss . . . .
 



Snakes by Margaret Aycock oil on canvas

My husband, Scott and I recently had a month long show at a local gallery.  My husband is a poet, and I, of course, the painter.  Each painting had a corresponding poem.  This one had a great poem about a little boy falling asleep on a hot Sunday at church.  To read the poem feel free to click the link to my blog.  To visit my ebay gallery, click the link to gallery.
Blog
Gallery