Crimson Moon (Mixed media)


Day 98.

Silent orchestra. Silent for now while my ears grow accustomed. New sounds, new melodies but the beat is as old as time.


Constraint (Soft pastel)


Day 91.

Gregor Samsa like I click and scuttle

My north paws rubbing together in waiting

I’ll cling to the ceiling yet

That I’m certain would more normal seem than any experience I’ve had so far

hollow -hearted whole

leave well alone,

Take me I am ready.

Postcard to myself (Pencil)


Day 82.

Sketches of Spain.

Postcards that got written only to languish on the fridge door

Awaiting what, divine intervention?

Full of best intentions until the steam runs out.

You’re missed!

You’re thought of!

Pangs of distance muted in the echo chamber message side.

More fodder for the procrastinators volumes.

Wish you were here, you get the drift

Probably not or subconscious telepathy I underestimate.

The Crypt. (Oil pastel)


Day 81.

Within the crypt laying undisturbed for centuries is an unknown force of immeasurable magnitude

Sealed off from the outer world to avoid contamination, it undergoes a mysterious process

no trace of it exists,  at surface level all is discreet

Unknowingly waiting in dutiful living the world churns

a hollow is hollowed from beneath

quietly imperceptibly new formations and permutations evolve, dissolve in unobserved fractal dancing

to a droning hum of distant industry accompanied

We wait.

Horae. (Acryllic)


Day 80.

Everything is its opposite. Autumn holds within it the Spring time.

Spring sprouts, Autumn sheds. A timely dance of beckoning and yielding.

One harks of the other, its gestures mirroring in reverse

A two step across the hemispheres.

An interpretation of Fresco of Flora, goddess of flowers and Spring. Her sprightly step and flowing skirts are a reminder of the circular nature of time and its abundant glories.

The Egg. (Oil pastel)


Day 78.

Trying to become that thing.

To hatch, to emerge from the egg.

The egg I’ve been in for so long I feared I had become the egg.

Now can I see it for a shell.

A shell I must beat my way out of.

And so I thrust back my head and trust the force of my knowing beak to unleash me.