Our day painting in pictures:
Our day painting in pictures:
To be told that your lover is gone,
As gently as one can be told
That your lover, the man you wanted
Planned to spend the rest of your life
That man is no longer among the
He disappeared like
The white feathery pins of a dandelion
In the wind,
Drifting off to another place,
Gone back to the earth’s soil,
To become something else,
Strolling through the wild vines
With another widow,
Feeling like the hay chafe
Left behind by the grazing herd,
She feels something lingering
Like his fingers touching her
Intimate places hid from the world,
Or him watching for her
Among the forest leaves and withering pines,
As the stars of our universe
Sparkle and shine,
The wind like his warm breath,
He could be alive somewhere waiting,
Or watching the slippery stones of moss
In the flowing crystal streams,
Her female soul wants to run
For the moors,
To be together wild and free,
Because the living has no answers
Will he watch her undress now?
She hopes her memory does not
Grow vague of him,
Like a dusty forgotten canvas,
The artist has gone
Leaving it behind,
Unfinished was their love,
She desires to dissolve gradually
Free to let go,
Becoming one of those
Vacant houses standing still
After the harvest,
With no heat or lights,
She remembers the blossoms
Of their secret garden,
Thriving all summer long,
Nourishing them daily,
Those river roses of pinks and reds,
Past their peak
No mark left behind
To shake the memories again. –J. E. Cook ©2018
Raining in the night,
Leaves on the ground,
Flashes of light,
Wrens to the South,
Maybe, the Gulf of Mexico,
Rain still falling,
Covering a valley in mists of it,
Fog filling in among the weaving
The river filling,
Weight of raindrops pulling,
Autumn leaves losing color,
Large puddles forming
In wet fields of mud and swampy debris,
Pathways are murky and slick,
Still, the water comes down
As yellow headlights swallow up
With faith in the plan,
We continue this journey
Faith in the course of it,
Swimming on among the sea
Cascades of water cover the
Dirt roads and the saturated lands
Are minutes from flooding
The valley ahead,
But, we go on,
It’s too dark to
We need to be HOME. —J. E. Cook ©2018
To look out the window
Filled with continued longing,
Eyes seeking the ground
Towards the flowing river
With the extending trees on fire
With the high colors
Of the crisp autumn season,
Who’s soul dances among
Those brittle leaves
Covering the moist ground?
To be a wisp of a girl again
Walking around the gathering, wet
Stones in the swift stream,
Dancing among the tall, magnificent
White birches in the back fields,
Staying along the river
To return home
After an afternoon spent in the warm beams
Of sunlight breaking through. –J. E. Cook ©2018
A Poem by Josie E. Cook M. A.
Gazing at the old wooden rackets
Among the endless sepia photos,
History of past crowds,
Tournaments long gone,
Locations changed or forgotten,
Blurry images of loving couples in fine outfits
Enjoying the elegant clubhouse dances,
Those pale, lacy dresses with close fitted
Parasols in the sun as they stroll in the sands,
Dashing gentlemen claim their hands,
As little girls and young boys race around corners,
People gather to share drinks at covered tables,
Their cheerful vital attachments forming during
The seaside summer seasons,
As the fluttering butterflies kiss the open roses
Gracing the porches of their rented beach houses,
Moving from sepia to black & white to colors
On the club walls as time marches on,
Nearly no one notices the changes here as the sea scents
The air and the cheerful blue sky fills their open spaces
Where attractive people lounge by the water with
Pretty drinks as their children build empires in the white
Grains surrounding them,
The focus is on fun and games while the warm season lasts
And freckles form to stretch across their sun-kissed
Cheeks calming their inner souls
And releasing positive senses to prevent old inner tensions,
Young couples watch the constellations light up while
They cuddle deep into each other around
Shared beach fires,
Burning hotly to fin off the night chill after
The sun disappears and the moonlight
Swaps it, a
Welcome replacement to neon-lit offices
And cluttered desks,
A sabbatical of free-time where young
Girls wear Jackie O sunglasses and tie
Their wet hair back in jolly ponytails,
Yachts and big liners fill the harbors
Waiting to be sailed,
Blue waters, elegant couples, members and
Invited guests circling the pristine decks,
Inlets of fascination and narrow boarding docks
Waiting for their evening return.–J. E. Cook ©2017
A Poem by Josie E. Cook M. A.
Outside my seaside window,
I watch the sky melt like a hot
The bright colors becoming a
Canvas for the many sailboats
On the midnight blue surface,
Their lights streaming across
The shimmering waters,
I often dreamt of the sea
From my Ohio location,
Freedom on the moving
Yearning for an adventure
A long voyage with a special
Someone near me,
A wonderful communicator
To share my thoughts,
No soothing egos or severe misunderstanding,
Just the peace of the wilderness
Surrounding our shared views,
Two hearts and souls
Cradled in the hands of each other
With undouble bonds,
Sorting through the world together. –J. E. Cook ©2017
A Poem by Josie E. Cook M. A.
Our river is slow-moving
With twilight circling it
Mounds of dirt along it,
Marshes along the way,
Foaming gorges here and there,
Stone islands in the middle,
Gateways to other arteries,
Banks with forests lining them,
I think about other waterways
Like the Red Sea and the Atlantic Ocean,
The sands in them,
Do those tiny grains have
Some pink quartz inside…or any
Hard stones like diamonds.
Flowing water in dams
And over cliffs
Create a sound unique
Depending on the location,
Water is always needed in cultures
No matter royalty or poverty
It is a commodity,
Unlike ordinary everyday dust.
–J. E. Cook © 2017
A Poem by Josie E. Cook M. A.
Some women are daring and too intriguing to be
Rather these females are often called insane
By many respectable citizens,
Their eyes will always reveal their old fire
In their old age.
They remember doing things differently
Than others and talk about their past
Experiences with laughter and mystic.
Stories about cutting out black hearts
Instead of red ones on that romantic
Holiday in February,
Or rescuing an injured animal along
Or taking on guys
with a speedy car race,
Or daring to follow a dream and
Leave town to start a new life
With a tough outspoken man
That everyone else has despised
It felt like true love, but,
Instead, it became nothing
Behind his lingering smoke
Screen, except, her
Heartache and misery that follows
Along forever inside her head,
It is like a deep dark lake
With ice glazing it.
These tough women let it go,
Because they are like Amelia Earhart,
They scrape their slates clean and pristine,
And wade to the other side
Through knee-deep mud,
Black waters turn to clear blue
Even though it is hard to reach the bottom
They keep going avoiding the dangerous rocks
And not letting the falling snow stop them,
In their future, they reach a spectacular place
Where they join others to watch
The waxing moon rise above stars the size
Of the smallest planets,
Because they never fall permanently.
Despite their hardships in life,
It is the reason for their whole trip,
This experience of theirs–unique to them,
During their careers where some of them
Wear pressed suits and shiny baubles.
Their magnificent stars are still
Overhead while others watch,
The glorious moon follows them,
Until death, no matter how much
They show-off or push their adrenaline
They remain, foolish humans, in some peoples’
Eventually, something kills them,
Ending their sparkling dreams and these
Are choked to nothing but an echo
In someone’s memory. –J. E. Cook © 2017
A Poem by Josie E. Cook M. A.
In the United States,
The overall consensus
That a common white female
Is someone that
Goes to Starbucks regularly,
In Uggs and leggings very autumn,
As she talks into her iPhone after
Posting multiple selfies on Instagram
When she is finished with her perfect
Hair and layered makeup
After a long bubble soak in bath & body
And viewing her favorite movie, Mean Girls.
Then, she goes home to put on
Her black riding boots along with her lacy pink sports
Bra that she purchased at Victoria Secret
While shopping with her chic besties.
She blows out her frosted cranberry candles
As she Snap chats about her shopping
Encounters with her other group of
The ones with Vera Bradley purses, Nike shorts,
And North Face jackets.
Putting on some fake hipster eyeglasses,
She snaps another selfie to post,
This time on Twitter,
Where her last post was about her
Customized black leather jacket
Complete with Harley emblems,
She is obsessed with her new iPad.
Life as her,
Is so “I can’t even… imagine.”
–J. E. Cook ©2017
If every journey has an ending,
And every story has a start,
Would thy thoughts remain unbending,
That the Tin Man once had a heart?
That he lived a life of leisure,
In the forests of Oz forevermore,
Where the chipmunks frolicked in pleasure,
Upon evergreen seas of wood lawn floor.
Where the canopies teemed with birdsong,
And cicadas serenaded the night,
And the Lunar Queen on velvet throne,
Bathed the land in pearly light.
Tangerine beams of Sun’s contentment,
Polished his soul to silver sheen,
And the mist of disenchantment,
In his life, was nowhere to be seen.
And he reveled in joyous solitude,
In his home deep in the woods,
Where his apple orchard gave gratitude,
With unending ripened goods.
Then one glorious tranquil morn,
In the depths of florescent Spring,
Was his covert nurturing faith reborn,
When he heard the voice of an Angel sing.
For there beneath an apple tree,
Stood an emblem of Love divine,
Such a beauteous Nymph as there could be
Caressing the fruits upon its vine.
With cascading falls of golden locks,
And eyes a misterium of onyx hue,
She sang and whirled to emerging flocks,
That flew down to rest from the azure blue.
In the silent whoosh of Cupid’s rush,
There amidst the scores of Turtle Dove,
Their gaze did meet through crimson blush,
And they fell to depths of torrid Love.
And there amongst the swelling throng,
They twirled together entwined as one,
As Nature’s bards took up the song,
And the Lunar Queen embraced her Sun.
As daylight wilted to twilight gloam,
And starlight shyly twinkled through,
He guided her to his simple home,
Where Life and Love was born anew.
Through the fertility of the Springtime,
And all through the Summer’s swell,
Did their heart’s converse in Love’s rhyme,
In wondrous bliss did they both dwell.
But when Old Man Autumn in rustic fawn,
Encroached the serenity of this place,
Had the creeping tendrils of restless dawn,
Shone ill light upon their Love’s solace.
For the Wood Nymph had ambition,
She was no patient Eremite,
And she rebelled in true sedition,
Lured by the Emerald City’s bright.
One night under veiled star-fall,
While in dreaming did the Tin Man lay,
Did the Wood Nymph pack her belongings all,
And stole his radiant heart away.
And when he awoke to sunlight stream,
That shimmered his glossy face,
His world collapsed to nightmare dream,
She had disappeared without a trace.
He trawled through the woods in panic,
Let loose cries and desperate pleas,
That reverberated fleetingly manic,
On the gossiping Autumn breeze.
When his calls echoed in silence,
And stirred no sleeping ghost,
He lapsed into despairing violence,
For loss of things he loved the most.
He wailed in tormented grieving,
Like a baying Hound of Hell,
And struck his chest a-heaving,
His now heartless empty shell.
Then his trusty axe he took to hand,
And Cut! And Chopped! And Sliced!,
Decimating his orchard from the land,
In a whirlwind of rage and vice!
When his madness had abated,
He stood alone under gleaming sky,
As sorrow’s waves invaded,
On the breath of his longing sigh.
With his soul now torn asunder,
And with his hope ground into dust,
He hearkened to the distant thunder,
Then cried himself to rust.
All the forest joined to mourn him,
Shed their leaves in solemn prayer,
As the Solar King dialed down to dim,
In respect for the Life lost there.
And the passing days did wither,
Under first frost of Winter’s kiss,
Delayed by the Ice Queen’s dither,
In her fear of discourteous remiss.
And the Tin Man remained there frozen,
Through all time and Love’s decay,
‘Till a young girl and Scarecrow chosen,
Walked the Yellow Brick Road his way.
A Poem by Josie E. Cook M. A.
Gazing out at the faraway islands,
She imagines the handsome faces
The British killed,
Buried here, leaving behind young widows,
To assess the ocean alone.
Her eye on one point on the horizon
As she thinks about reckless pirates
going to the Indies
Or Charles Town.
Her mind on
The sandy shoals between Beaufort,
And the Atlantic waters,
She once visited a place on Bogue Island,
That had a decaying fort,
And an inlet where old ships came to visit
They were rumored to be the protection
Against Indian bandits,
The army camping there never completed
The southern walls,
Musket balls could be
lingering in the dirt,
Along with buried wreckage,
Summer is ending,
And she often thinks about the dead
As her garden dies,
What haunts this land
are the lingering ghosts
Of those men and boys that left Beaufort,
Promising letters to their waiting ladies,
All they became were moving targets
for the British invasion
As their muskets fired,
Local uniforms were covered in crimson stains,
Dark holes and charred souls linger
In old passageways,
Their ladies long dead,
After sleepless nights thinking
Deeply about their lost kisses.
She doesn’t like loving these trapped
As she stands at her open door
Watching the glint of the rising moon
On her moving sea in front of her.
She would rather think of a tranquil location
In sunny Beaufort,
Where a meadow is filled with grazing cows
Pecan trees. Green apples are brought to them,
As a bluebird
Moves from branch to branch
Above the herd,
And the pecans fall and fill the open air.
Now she sits on her porch swing,
Thinking of a studious painter, she loves
Living in New Bern,
Where he works on detailed miniatures and his
Art will be moved weekly
and arrive in distant places,
She longs to pose for him again soon.
Her knees draw up,
And she twists her hair slowly
Thinking about him and his socked feet
Smiling at her as he hands over
A little painting of her.
Her secret treasure, in an ivory frame
And the size of a thumbnail
Her having a picnic with him,
Born from a hastily drawn sketch in ink,
Now, vibrant in flowing oils,
She leaves 1782 behind with a fleeting
Thought about a lost letter
She discovered yesterday morning
While cleaning the crowded attic,
She Imagined the smell of it,
As her eyes read,
About somewhere inland,
And a Sunday camp filled with pain
Over lost cousins,
And a sweetheart missed with
The miles of unknown
Pressing into her mind
A whistle of a Cherokee arrow
Breaking the silence
Of the frontier there inside
Would the island slaves solve anything
With the Lord’s prayer?
The gilded-edge scene is buried
In her thoughts
As she watches their sun disappear
Leaving the colors of her fall behind to
Hide in the shadows of the casting
Boughs among the flowing hills
Beyond the seas and distant shores.–J.E. Cook ©2017
~Roxy’s finished Painting~
~The painting I finished during this class~
~My prototype that we used during the class to follow as an example~
Book a Paint Bar Painting Party today with me and enjoy a session of art therapy with your favorite group of friends. We supply the canvas, paints, brushes, and light snacks for one price per person. You can pick your subject to paint for your party group and the theme of the party. It’s a fun experience that you can remember by hanging your finished product on your wall or giving it away for a gift to a special someone.
Please read my poem representing Ohio poetry creation along with other talented poets’ contributing written work. This new publication is available currently on Amazon for purchase in a Kindle edition or in print paperback.
Remember to vote on the Amazon site via a reader review below the Ohio’s Best Emerging Poets: An Anthology. Vote for your favorite poet included in this Ohio poetry collection and remember to include the title of their poem with their name in your review. By reviewing their crafted poetic contribution to this unique Ohio publication, you will allow them to advance into a drawing for a full-book publication produced by Z Publishing House in the future. Don’t forget to include their name and the title of their poem with your honest review of this Ohio poetry collection of 2017.
*~Creating with acrylic paints on canvas~*
My painting of Whaley Lane in North Carolina~*
~My painting from our Sip & Paint party on Saturday evening~
With me, you were often a different person…
Curled inside the new
quilt your mother made us
Feeling the warmth, it provides me
I love that feeling of the cool denim hugging
My naked body,
The blue lining keeping in the inner heat,
Our wedding anniversary of one year has
Arrived and gone,
You have been away for a while on business
In New Orleans,
I missed you so much,
But your phone calls kept me grounded
I shiver and pick at a loose thread hanging
From the quilt’s corner.
You join me under it and many others
Glad to have you back inside with me,
I cuddle close to your muscled chest
Warm suntanned skin, as fresh balsam scents
are mixed into our shared air,
I rise to kiss your sultry closed mouth,
Our lovemaking begins,
A pin in the fabric pricks my tender skin
Along my inner arm,
I’m snagged by it and a trail of red
Smears me as I move with you,
This not being the first time your mother
Forgot a pin or lost one,
Your lips touch the wounded spot
And everything is better and forgotten
As you keep kissing my skin
To my breasts and lingering there
For several moments,
I’m drowning in your passion,
A devotion that I never considered
It was what I once wished for
However, the price became too high
And it had so many strings attached to it,
Ones that were hidden and often dormant
Until they were unleashed by something
Unexpected and unwanted. –J. E. Cook ©2017
Sometimes, it is a book and other times it is a small selection of admired poetry. Here are some of my favorites by poets in time. William Blake is the one I would have to pick if I had to site one favorite poet; however, I have many favorite poets, writers, and authors that I often turn to every morning while I sip my coffee or tea in those early hours as the sun rises and creates an inspiring image on our skies.
The Garden of Love
I went to the Garden of Love,
And saw what I never had seen:
A Chapel was built in the midst,
Where I used to play on the green.
And the gates of this Chapel were shut,
And Thou shalt not. writ over the door;
So I turn’d to the Garden of Love,
That so many sweet flowers bore.
And I saw it was filled with graves,
And tomb-stones where flowers should be:
And Priests in black gowns, were walking their rounds,
And binding with briars, my joys & desires.
‘Out, Out—’Related Poem Content Details
BY ROBERT FROST
The buzz saw snarled and rattled in the yard
And made dust and dropped stove-length sticks of wood,
Sweet-scented stuff when the breeze drew across it.
And from there those that lifted eyes could count
Five mountain ranges one behind the other
Under the sunset far into Vermont.
And the saw snarled and rattled, snarled and rattled,
As it ran light, or had to bear a load.
And nothing happened: day was all but done.
Call it a day, I wish they might have said
To please the boy by giving him the half hour
That a boy counts so much when saved from work.
His sister stood beside him in her apron
To tell them ‘Supper.’ At the word, the saw,
As if to prove saws knew what supper meant,
Leaped out at the boy’s hand, or seemed to leap—
He must have given the hand. However it was,
Neither refused the meeting. But the hand!
The boy’s first outcry was a rueful laugh,
As he swung toward them holding up the hand
Half in appeal, but half as if to keep
The life from spilling. Then the boy saw all—
Since he was old enough to know, big boy
Doing a man’s work, though a child at heart—
He saw all spoiled. ‘Don’t let him cut my hand off—
The doctor, when he comes. Don’t let him, sister!’
So. But the hand was gone already.
The doctor put him in the dark of ether.
He lay and puffed his lips out with his breath.
And then—the watcher at his pulse took fright.
No one believed. They listened at his heart.
Little—less—nothing!—and that ended it.
No more to build on there. And they, since they
Were not the one dead, turned to their affairs.
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