Stolen Sonnet

Stolen 

Chicken wires cannot stop

Coyote pays gold unknown

Ship daughter from hilltop

Cash me outside not grown 

Gangs pull pony tail braid

Girl taste passion fruit pink

Cut open inside cactus jade

Glue neon head lamp blink

 

Women huddle in cubicles

Winter hearts rub crackle

Lips swell, share the fables

Wet earthquake tabernacle

Mission bells bleed dread
Maybe white lady spooks

Say you tremble to read

Stolen Art History books

 Care for Etruscan fresco

Curse a Japanese Shinto

Gago never paid Jeanbeau

Catalog the melts in snow

 

Spies get off with grace

Still hands off grid lace

Ha originals wait in place

Scoundrel pinot noir face

Deportation of Dad

Black talent canvad

Dumb ones to be had

Drag eyes to road bad

Copyright Caroline Gerardo 3/9/2017

images and poem

Fly Fishing Artist

Ode to Michael Brewster

All days in and near water.

Met Master Fly Fisher Man eighteen years past. 

This famous fly tier and angler became a teacher.

Create Ginger Quill, Gold ribbed hare's ear 

and pale morning dun of string. 

He taught casting, conservancy and cooking.  

Lessons share different by students:

forever one in nature;

become conservationists;

catch and release; 

or saute salmon on open fire.

Rare Apache trout braves the life of an artist.

Michael taught connection with nature.

He showed courage.

Dressing flies: a silly life,

think what you will;

I swim with steel head.

Grateful to use my gills.

Thank You Michael Brewster

Rest in Peace. 

  

September 27, 2016 

copyright Caroline Gerardo for words, images and video

Mourning 6th Street Bridge

Mourning Sixth Street Bridge.

Grabbed days to hike in Sequoia - a poem - story to follow.
No equipment at REI everyone expecting local snow- wrong- Drove route around Los Angeles to Burbank Sport Chalet. On the return trip, dread grew approaching the intersection of Interstate 5  60 and 10 Freeways. The crowded part where traffic slows at the Brewery made me hold my breath as if in a tunnel wishing. I moved forward in my seat to view a pile of rubble. Thought about taking pictures, did not, I grabbed rocks. Display them as relics, Holy Foreskin in a vitrine.
You think that sacrilegious before Easter. It is not. I will have them blessed  when I'm back.

In 1983 I lived above LACE on Industrial Street. L.A. now has a District name for everywhere. Art District, K- Town for samples. Back then Little Tokyo didn't have condos or fancy hotels. I drove a 1970's Corolla with no radio and a bit of bondo- nothing worth stealing. Sunny days I rode my bike across the bridge to work in Boyle Heights. After painting at night for hours I met friends for a night cap at Yee Mee Loo's, also gone to rubble.
You think it strange for a tiny girl to ride about. It was not. I carried a permit to pack.

Is nothing sacred or beautiful? Could we not have bolstered it up with patches of wire and
called it a pedestrian path? The Walking District. The bridge connected East Side to the Fashion District (glorious name for seedy Santee Alley) and the shrinking Flower Market.
Aren't there jobs there? Maybe not important. I miss the 6th Street Bridge.

Who gets that bronze plaque?

Jane Brucker

Jane Brucker's "Bouquet"

Grandmother’s gone, pack her stuff.

Pressed flowers from a wedding rest in the Bible.

A bouquet, the word has a sound and an aroma,

 reminding she loved lavender.

A box of letters in French, though your ancestors were Irish.

A map and engineering plans signed with your father’s name.

An artist at her easel with haunting eyes in a daguerreotype.

Pieces combine in assemblage becoming, converting your soul.

Together they tell a story.

Fearless, open the box of secrets.

A sprinkler valve key opens.

Graceful wiring, ancient timepieces

and scissors to cut your nosegay.

Jane Brucker’s assemblage pieces installation 

are exhibited at SPARC in

South Pasadena until June 2nd 2015

1121 Mission Street 

Jane’s work combines 

found objects, performance and community.

Thomas Moore

“Like the gale, that sighs along 
Beds of oriental flowers, 
Is the grateful breath of song, 
That once was heard in happier hours. 
Fill'd with balm the gale sighs on, 
Though the flowers have sunk in death; 
So, when pleasure's dream is gone, 
Its memory lives in Music's breath. “

SPARC
BOUQUET 
JANE BRUCKER
South Pasadena

Pumpkin into a Carriage

Pumpkin spirit

You have the courage, magic, ability to change the pumpkin into a carriage.

Return to writing, exercise, work and savor beauty to create.

pumpkin lady

Book Covers

My recent favorite book cover art.

The first few are in blues.

I would love to paint an image that

works in blue tones for my next cover.

Intuitively I feel it is going to be sepia or black.

The landscape is black dust storms. I have numerous photographs I took

of tornadoes, dust devils, abandoned barns on my last trip to Wyoming

but I can't settle my heart on the right one.

Perhaps you will give me some input?

Rare you see the full face of a woman as a cover. Usually it is a shot from behind. Or the face disguised. I love this image in sepia.

I amwriting

http://www.amazon.com/Toxic-Assets-Bank-Caroline-Gerardo-ebook/dp/B004RCLZXI/ref=tmm_kin_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&sr=1-1&qid=1405021460

Preponderance of Crows May 21

Van Gogh Wheat Field

Preponderance of Crows

Copyright Caroline Gerardo May 13, 2011

Kakka बाली

The neigh Sayers hike with black t-shirts

Why exercise if the end of days is only nine away?

They speak in tongues, in whispers, in my dreams.

Flocks of crows are upon us.

My heart pumps crimson rust.

Once it filled with liquid amber.

Numerology tells the jackdaw to raid the tomb.

Flocks of crows are upon us.

The rook imitates human voices.

He calls koww and caw eh aw for Bali Kakka.

When he flies on my right, it is good omen.

Flocks of crows are upon us.

Rumor is Harold Camping has West Nile Virus.

A raven can use tools and make art.

I am a three legged corvid, we will all survive.

***

I first posted this just as Google softwear updates crashed. I was thinking it had something to do with criticizing the doomsday group.  The video and photographs I uploaded, I lost. Somehow, no copy but I had a clip of a different video. Video on Blogger takes forever to load.  

Keep Practicing

 Everything in Life takes hard work to reap any reward. I love this painting in New York. The image reminds me of the hours I spend reworking a sentence. The metronome just keeps ticking. I started working on my novel on a computer that does not have internet access. It does not make it any easier. The writing remains solitary. It gnaws at me to reach the finish line.
 I have a clock in my heart that is filled with stories, but not enough time.
Painting is Matisse, The Piano Lesson. The little boy is actually Matisse's son Pierre. The close up image I photographed at MOMA.