When you face challenges, you naturally search for answers.
Have you, like me, ever fallen under a woven world’s wordspell? Some of Anthony’s poems on Hands in the Garden appear sensible and others completely obscure. For most of Sink to Surface, you enter another dimension. And even then you may never comprehend the road map.
Anthony Gorman’s first book may be the last place you think to look when in need. But perhaps it should be the first. And not necessarily to find answers, to solve problems. Rather to take a reprieve from life itself. Wander in wonderlands and eat chocolate and dream visions of peace.
Anthony’s work is never the ordinary. Do not expect truths to be spelled out in black and white. Expect to sift through technicolor visions and wade in waist deep, until you are ready to drown.
“My portion of proceeds will be going directly to an ethically sound and creative cause called The Art for Aid Project, which aims to bring art supplies to indigenous communities to assist in the process of internal healing.To find out more about their mission, click below.
Do we owe apologies when life happens? My heart ♥️ is discombobulated at the moment. I miss you dear readers and i made a brief appearance this morning after a welcome disappearance from the world. A friend and i made away to the wooded hills of Brown County, in my expedient retreat from the hustle and bustle of moving. And i stopped to breath. And a few words made it to the surface, popped and left stains on paper. I shared them with you from the encouragement of another. Thank you for reading.
death of an era
I have not been able to read any of your blogs and i want to. I desperately feel i owe you that curtesy and i cannot fulfill that endeavor. I want to be able to think, write and paint. But i cannot. I want to reach out, touch and exchange smiles. But i cannot. I want to scream, be heard and cry. But i cannot.
Life happens. But i am not.
I remain enclosed in self-protection from the chaos of realtor showings, movers approaching with boxes, tape and sharpies. I am spinning and not on tip-toe.
At the moment i remain confused. I do not profess to understand the complexities i am passing through. Your worlds are miles away and cannot be reached. My world is slipping from my hands.
my promise garden
These are moments to cherish. The labor of my hands have shown to say hello, one more time. And goodbye forever.
I wrote a poem to a friend this past weekend. (See below.) I sent it off to him. He did not respond. Silence weighs heavy on my head. I do not understand his absence after sharing his desire to reciprocate. Another of his small deaths looming?
found the feathers
who wastes their life?
bundled in piles
faded ink scribbles
unable to decipher his path forward
entangles with her promises.