Visual Poetry

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HOTHOUSE By Susan Hanlon Oil on Canvas 38 x 22 First Place Winner

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NATURE RARER USES YELLOW By Emily Dickinson Nature rarer uses yellow Than another hue; Saves she all of that for sunsets,-- Prodigal of blue, Spending scarlet like a woman, Yellow she affords Only scantly and selectly , Like a lover's words.

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SILK By Matt Ellrod Oil 41 x 29 Second Place Winner

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SYMPHYOTRICHUM NOVAE-ANGLIAE By Bob Zappacosta You must understand I am not An intellectual tabby cat. Throughout most of my life I have known the work which cuts into one’s hands leaving a layer of skin some call calloused. Yet, I can assure you, I have not forgotten the feel of silk between my fingers , sliding, slowly down the thighs of a beautiful New England girl. So– the next time you feel like quoting the scientific names of flowers, trust me! for your own good, do it when I’m not around. © Bob Zappacosta . First published in Pearl Literary magazine—issue # 43

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ARTIST DREAMS By Stuart Dwork Watercolor 18 x 21 Third Place Winner

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ARTIST DREAMS by Stuart Alan Dwork Loneliness comes in many forms, somewhere between the dusk and dawn of love and lust loneliness is born. It begins with parting as days’ divide steadily on bye….the search begins deep inside. In the peaceful quiet of night or the crowded throngs of day, only loneliness can make the sun appear so gray. Leaves of green so quickly disappear and winter loneliest of seasons is here. Painted forms surround my soul as I wander through this skeleton land alone where the smoky air turns the day to dark despair and think of a love I may have somewhere. (Continued)

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November days are dreary, of loneliness I am weary. Winged travelers in the sky turn to lands in the dry sun while those that are old can only stay, as the frost greets once more each newborn day while the sun seems to be hiding somewhere far away. Looking outside the night snow is quietly falling my reflection in the window a silent form I see… I look into the empty night and all that emptiness is me… of which I was born. © 2008

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AUTUMN TREES By Carole Flagg Pastel 14 x 17 Honorable Mention

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TO AUTUMN by John Keats Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun Conspiring with him how to load and bless With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run; To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees, And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core; To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells With a sweet kernel; to set budding more, And still more, later flowers for the bees, Until they think warm days will never cease, For Summer has o'er- brimm'd their clammy cells. Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store? Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find Thee sitting careless on a granary floor, Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind ; (Continued)

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Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind; Or on a half- reap'd furrow sound asleep, Drows'd with the fume of poppies, while thy hook Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers: And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep Steady thy laden head across a brook; Or by a cider-press, with patient look, Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours. Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?

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KOI “TEMPLE FISH” By Harvey E. Berman Watercolor 22 x 26 Honorable Mention

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TEMPLE FISH By Brian Miller temple fish changing water to air with vacant expression predatory stare oiling around in a greasy walled pond touched by gold just getting bigger not growing old mouthing the mysteries that nobody hears seemingly distant empty of fear swimming serenely but hunting for food interesting how he reflects all our moods haughty or humble, aloof with disdain just blowing bubbles thinks life a stain eloquent silence a spiritual air they say each circle he swims is a prayer perhaps I should feed him store talents up or down there (Continued)

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perhaps I’ll leave ignoring his glare leave temple and golden carp of the mind not join in the dance of the blinded unkind instead keep on walking the threadbare stair look to horizons, a future out there hapy foot in the moment, past unbound a trembling step bare foot to the ground

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STAIRWAY OF OLD CITY By Dorothy Banker Oil 30 x 36

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ANCIENT HILLSIDE VILLAGE By Dorothy Banker Oil 30 x 40

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I LOVE OLD THINGS By Wilson MacDonald I love old things: Streets of old cities Crowded with ghosts And banked with oranges, Gay scarfs and shawls That flow like red water. I love old abbeys With high, carved portals And dim, cool corners Where tired hearts pray: I join them in the silence And repair my soul. I love old inns Where floors creak eerily And doors blow open On windless nights, Where heavy curtains Dance a slow waltz. I love old trees That lift up their voices High above the grasses. They do not sing At the light wind's bidding: They chant alone to storms. I love old china, Knowing well the flavour Of great, strong men And fair, sweet women Lurks at the rim Of each deep brown bowl. ( Continued)

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I love old books Frayed from the searching Of truth-hungry fingers: Their warm, soft vellum Leads me up through sorrow Like a dear friends' hand. I love old men And old, dear women Who keep red cheeks As the snows of winter Keep them round red berry Of the winter-green. (This verse to be chanted) I love old things: Weather-beaten, worn things, Cracked, broken, torn things, The old sun, the old moon, The old earth's face, Old wine in dim flagons, Old ships and old wagons- OLD SHIPS AND OLD WAGONS- (this line softly) Old coin and old lace, Rare old lace.

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LAST LIGHT By Mary Ellen Bitner Pastel 20 x 20

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LAST LIGHT through bare birch branches I watch summer's final flames flicker in maples. FreeRange Poet ‎ 07 Sep 2011 Haiku (for Mary Ellen)

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MAPLE AND MAINE By Mary Ellen Bitner Pastel 16 x 20

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TREES by Joyce Kilmer (1886-1918 ) I think that I shall never see A poem lovely as a tree. A tree whose hungry mouth is prest Against the earth's sweet flowing breast; A tree that looks at God all day, And lifts her leafy arms to pray; A tree that may in summer wear A nest of robins in her hair; Upon whose bosom snow has lain; Who intimately lives with rain. Poems are made by fools like me, But only God can make a tree.

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STORM CLOUDS RISING By Mary Ellen Bitner Pastel 24 x 18

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STORM CLOUDS RISING by Mary Ellen Bitner Still air warms Silence reigns Atmosphere heavy Storm Clouds Rising. Cool breeze stirs Distant thunder Rumbling in the East Storm Clouds Rising. Winds strengthen Trees moving Leaning to the West Storm Clouds Rising. Rumbles stronger Darkening sky Black clouds falling Streaks of light. Storm Clouds Rising From the East!

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PEACE REVISITED By Frank Bolock Acrylic 19 x 24

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PEACE by Frank Bolock In a world racked with war not a few, but many more Those rare times when the angel of peace spreads her flowers—our hope is such times continue to increase.

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THE MASKED WOMAN-HIDING THE TRUTH By Jason Dowd Photography

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THE MASK by Jason Dowd (2011) A mask we wear, our face we hide To conceal emotions we can’t confide To mask the truth of lies we weave To protect ourselves from whom we deceive It hides our depression, sadness and fears From being exposed to our close peers This mask someday your soul will break For it does not fix the problems at stake Lies don’t last, they are weak and shall rumble Reducing your life to a pile of rubble Take off this mask and you shall see The weight is lifted, your spirit is free Be proud of yourself and who you can be It’s the true you we want to see For the TRUE you is all you need to be - happily

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LETS NEVER FORGET THEM By Stuart Dwork Giclee Print 25 x 40

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LET’S NEVER FORGET THEM by Stuart Alan Dwork They’ve come and they have gone. Each with their own special story To fight for our freedom and with glory. They’ve come and they have gone. Faceless names upon the field of death, A living hell then one last breath. They’ve come and they have gone. In the midst of the furious firing, Giving a hug to a buddy who is dying. They’ve come and they have gone. Unsung heroes to the battle call, Only to be a name inscribed upon a wall. They’ve come and they have gone . (Continued)

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And this will continue as time goes by, For keeping the freedom many will die. They’ve come and they have gone. From the land of the free And the home of the brave. They’ve come and they have gone. Let’s not forget them For our freedom we must save. painting and poem © 2004

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THE WINGS ON THE WIND By Stuart Dwork Acrylic on Board 22 x 24

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THE WINGS ON THE WIND by Stuart Alan Dwork Where does it start Where does it end Sometimes soft and sweet Or violent and destructive It has no home It’s on its own High above the ocean Mingling with the clouds over the sunny meadows Or above the dark primeval forests Blowing the desert sands While whisking above the glaciers high Silent free and ever strong High aloft an eagle soars in its path In the majestic highway of the sky Here the wings on the wind Will find their way home once again © 2011

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RED TULIPS By Carole Flagg Acrylic 15 x 17

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TULIPS By Padraic Colum An age being mathematical, these flowers Of linear stalks and spheroid blooms were prized By men with wakened, speculative minds, And when with mathematics they explored The Macrocosm, and came at last to The Vital Spirit of the World, and named it Invisible Pure Fire, or, say, the Light, The Tulips were the Light's receptacles. The gold, the bronze, the red, the bright-swart Tulips! No emblems they for us who no more dream Of mathematics burgeoning to light With Newton's prism and Spinoza's lens, Or berkeley's ultimate, Invisible Pure Fire. In colored state and carven brilliancy We see them now, or, more illumined, In sudden fieriness, as flowers fit To go with vestments red on Pentecost. Padraic Colum 1881 – 1972 An Irish Poet, Novelist and Playwright Poem found on www.poemhunter.com

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WINTER TREES By Carole Flagg Acrylic 16 x 20

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WINTER TREES By William Carlos Williams All the complicated details of the attiring and the disattiring are completed! A liquid moon moves gently among the long branches. Thus having prepared their buds against a sure winter the wise trees stand sleeping in the cold . William Carlos Williams 1883-1963. Found on www.poemhunter.com

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A FIELD By Mark Gallo Acrylic 18 x 22

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A FIELD By Mark Gallo I know a field where flowers grow Atop a hill where a breeze does blow The clouds come in and gather round They do their dance without a sound The sun feels warm upon my face The smell of flowers fills this place I go to this place without a plan I go to this place wherever I can No matter the prayer when I go there I always return without a care.

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CIGARS – YBOR CITY By Gerald P. Giglia Photography 16 x 13

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CIGARS by Gerald P. Giglia So many made a Living by rolling These gems. Talking, laughing, Crying as they Worked their fingers Back and forth. Light or dark Long or small Stacks were made Who could roll more? Listen to the newspaper Or a novel being read. A sip of espresso. Continue to roll. Smell this aroma As Ybor can surely state And through the silver smoke Times gone as through a gate. May 26 2011

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IMMIGRANT STATUE By Gerald P. Giglia Photography 16 x 13

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THE IMMIGRANTS by Gerald P. Giglia The courage of the brave Father, mother, and children here stand These were our families Here our roots hand and hand. They left family and friends But stood firm and resolute Never to see them again The future was absolute. Look at their faces Filled with hope Forward looking Together they could cope . Opportunities they searched Never discouraged by a fall America their dream Hard work was their call. Many years have passed But through it all “ Sempre famiglia ” was in their hearts “Always family” we grandchildren recall. May 26, 2011

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THE ITALIAN CLUB – YBOR CITY By Gerald P. Giglia Photography 16 x 13

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O GLORIOUS BUILDING by Gerald P. Giglia Look at the columns As strong and Determined as their will. Look at the windows As wide and Clear as their View of the future. Look at the detail As complex as the Spirit of their soul. The activities in This building were the Connections to their Reminded past. Oh this glorious building I could stare for days I can see my grandparents With Sicily in their gaze. May 26 2011

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THE DUCK By John Henne Acrylic on Panel 18 x 24

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THE DUCK By Ogden Nash Behold the duck It does not cluck A cluck it lacks It quacks It’s especially fond Of a puddle or pond When it dines or sups It bottoms ups

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DECEMBER SUNSET By Peggie Lax Watercolor 30 x 23

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SPACE By O r ion Space is not a void, But instead it is a stage, On which life occurs. Used with permission from the Poet

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HATS By Mary Ellen O’Brien work on silk 24 x 21

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HATS By Mary Ellen O’Brien Ah, hats, hats, and more hats. Fun hats, glamour hats. “Where did I come from” hats memory hats…. A story with each one. Yours is next.

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A WINDOW By Mary Ellen O’Brien work on silk 20 x 32

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A WINDOW By Mary Ellen O’Brien Ah, windows, how I love them. Where are they? Churches, Restaurants, Homes— This one is Exploring Nature…. Will you join us?

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THE GOLDEN “TOUCH” By Mary Ellen O’Brien work on silk 18 X 24

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THE GOLDEN TOUCH By Mary Ellen O’Brien How much joy Can we present To please the Eye and cleanse The soul. Pass on your Joy and make Your “space” one Of tranquility And peace.

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NATIVE AMERICAN HERITAGE By Edie Rase Acrylic 33 x 33

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THANK YOU By unknown I thank Creator for the ways of creation. For eyes to see the beauty of creation. For ears to hear the sounds of creation. For the heart to understand the ways of Creator For hands to touch For words to teach little ones the ways of Creator I pray for love (Author of Internet Website has granted permission to use poetry as desired)

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CAKEFEST By Gainor Roberts Oil 25 x 21

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CHOCOLATE CAKE by Michael Rosen I love chocolate cake. And when I was a boy I loved it even more. Sometimes we used to have it for tea and Mum used to say, 'If there's any left over you can have it to take to school tomorrow to have at playtime.' And the next day I would take it to school wrapped up in tin foil open it up at playtime and sit in the corner of the playground eating it, you know how the icing on top is all shiny and it cracks as you bite into it, and there's that other kind of icing in the middle (Continued)

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and it sticks to your hands and you can lick your fingers and lick your lips oh it's lovely. yeah. Anyway, once we had this chocolate cake for tea and later I went to bed but while I was in bed I found myself waking up licking my lips and smiling. I woke up proper. 'The chocolate cake.' It was the first thing I thought of. I could almost see it so I thought, what if I go downstairs and have a little nibble, yeah ? (Continued)

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It was all dark everyone was in bed so it must have been really late but I got out of bed, crept out of the door there's always a creaky floorboard, isn't there? Past Mum and Dad's room, careful not to tread on bits of broken toys or bits of Lego you know what it's like treading on Lego with your bare feet, yowwww shhhhhhh downstairs into the kitchen open the cupboard and there it is all shining . (Continued)

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So I take it out of the cupboard put it on the table and I see that there's a few crumbs lying about on the plate, so I lick my finger and run my finger all over the crumbs scooping them up and put them into my mouth . oooooooommmmmmmmm nice. Then I look again and on one side where it's been cut, it's all crumbly. So I take a knife I think I'll just tidy that up a bit, cut off the crumbly bits (Continued)

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scoop them all up and into the mouth oooooommm mmmm nice. Look at the cake again. That looks a bit funny now, one side doesn't match the other I'll just even it up a bit, eh? Take the knife and slice. This time the knife makes a little cracky noise as it goes through that hard icing on top. A whole slice this time, into the mouth. Oh the icing on top (Continued)

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and the icing in the middle ohhhhhh oooo mmmmmm . But now I can't stop myself Knife - I just take any old slice at it and I've got this great big chunk and I'm cramming it in what a greedy pig but it's so nice, and there's another and another and I'm squealing and I'm smacking my lips and I'm stuffing myself with it and before I know I've eaten the lot. The whole lot. I look at the plate. It's all gone. (Continued)

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Oh no they're bound to notice, aren't they, a whole chocolate cake doesn't just disappear does it? What shall I do? I know. I'll wash the plate up, and the knife and put them away and maybe no one will notice, eh? So I do that and creep creep creep back to bed into bed doze off licking my lips with a lovely feeling in my belly. Mmmmrnmmmmm . (Continued)

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In the morning I get up, downstairs, have breakfast, Mum's saying, 'Have you got your dinner money?' and I say, 'Yes.' 'And don't forget to take some chocolate cake with you.' I stopped breathing. 'What's the matter,' she says, 'you normally jump at chocolate cake?' I'm still not breathing, and she's looking at me very closely now. She's looking at me just below my mouth. 'What's that?' she says. 'What's what?' I say . (Continued)

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'What's that there?' 'Where?' 'There,' she says, pointing at my chin. 'I don't know,' I say. 'It looks like chocolate,' she says. 'It's not chocolate is it?' No answer. 'Is it?' 'I don't know.' She goes to the cupboard looks in, up, top, middle, bottom, turns back to me. 'It's gone. It's gone. You haven't eaten it, have you?' 'I don't know.' 'You don't know. You don't know if you've eaten a whole chocolate cake or not? When? When did you eat it ?‘ (Continued)

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So I told her, and she said well what could she say? 'That's the last time I give you any cake to take to school. Now go. Get out no wait not before you've washed your dirty sticky face.' I went upstairs looked in the mirror and there it was, just below my mouth, a chocolate smudge. The give-away. Maybe she'll forget about it by next week. found on the website www.PoemHunter.com (permission requested)

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MUFFINFEST By Gainor Roberts Oil 25 x 21

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ODE TO THE MUFFIN MAN By R Beeman Silly little muffin man always eating muffins as fast as you can. All that huffing and a puffin will only get you so far, you quick little man. You must take your time and savor each precious moment for good muffins are hard to come by. There is nothing like a hot buttered muffin soaked with nature’s honey to bring a rise to your morning sky. All those little nooks and crannies exploding, awaiting exploration is wondrous to your eyes. Straight out of the oven, steaming moist and hot, go ahead and try one you won’t get caught. I see your eyes goggled out of your head as if this is the first muffin you ever saw. Baked to perfection, nature’s aromas swim around your mind. With good muffins you need to be gentle and kind and close off other thoughts as if your brain is blind. (Continued)

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Little nibbles, and don’t forget to catch that melted butter on your tongue are the best things you can try. For if someone tells you they don’t like muffins, it just has to be a lie. Enjoy each bite and don’t miss a crumb for when it is all gone great things will come. So the next time you get down with a muffin, don’t finish it in one bite. For if you do, I will run as FAST AS I CAN to take care of that muffin all night. © 2008 R. Beeman . Found on www.authorsden.com. Permission requested

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CANDYFEST By Gainor Roberts Oil 25 x 21

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ALL THE SWEETS I HAVE EATEN By Mick Law All the sweets I have eaten and savoured everyone. From the childhood “full to bursting” bags of treats, With senses on fire and the eager anticipation of wonders to come, Delving into a tasty mix with a new experience at every turn, Full of energy and brightness. To the chocolate sensations of new adult, mouth watering and sensual Gorging and swallowing down new flavours fresh savours , Sharing the moments, sticky fingers, chewing together and tasting it all Melted ecstasy. Then the mixed bag of middle age, the sour apples and sugar-laden highs The cough candy and the fruit salad days, ill and well together, The bag half empty now, but you are still as hungry and greedy for more. Now at last, a time to sit and chew the soft, mouth-watering mature toffee Invalid but still so sweet. (Continued)

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Taking time to taunt the aging taste buds, to remember all the ones before. To look at the bottom of the bag and see the last few pieces and relish every one Until you peek into the corner of the bag and there is one remaining glistening treat, you pop it in to eager mouth and crunch old teeth upon it for a final taste sensation. All gone. © Mick Law 2010. Found on www.PoemHunter.com. Permission requested

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TENDING FLOWERS By Pamela Rubinstein Oil 20 x 20

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SONG OF THE FLOWER XXIII By Khalil Gibran I am a kind word uttered and repeated By the voice of Nature; I am a star fallen from the Blue tent upon the green carpet. I am the daughter of the elements With whom Winter conceived; To whom Spring gave birth; I was Reared in the lap of Summer and I Slept in the bed of Autumn. At dawn I unite with the breeze To announce the coming of light; At eventide I join the birds In bidding the light farewell. (Continued)

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The plains are decorated with My beautiful colors, and the air Is scented with my fragrance. As I embrace Slumber the eyes of Night watch over me, and as I Awaken I stare at the sun, which is The only eye of the day. I drink dew for wine, and hearken to The voices of the birds, and dance To the rhythmic swaying of the grass. I am the lover's gift; I am the wedding wreath; I am the memory of a moment of happiness; I am the last gift of the living to the dead; I am a part of joy and a part of sorrow. But I look up high to see only the light, And never look down to see my shadow. This is wisdom which man must learn.

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SAMANTHA CAROLINE By Marie Schadt Oil 16 x 19

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SAMANTHA CAROLINE by Marie Schadt Golden girl so sunny bright, Sitting there in the morning light, A child just smiling and having a ball The loveliest flower among them all.

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HUBERT WANTED TO GO TO THE BEACH By Peter Stilton Ink, Acrylic, & Watercolor 16 x 20

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THE CHAIRS RETURN FROM THE BEACH by Peter Stilton A segment of remoteness A sliver of enchantment Chairs dream in starlight Reflected on the evening tide, A mirror of theatrical effect, Floating in palm fronds Against a midnight sky.

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MIRAGE ONE By Marcia Treiger Archival Ink Jet 28 x 36

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UNTITLED By John Cage The first question I ask myself when something doesn’t seem beautiful is why do I think it’s not beautiful. And very shortly you discover that there is no reason.

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MIRAGE TWO By Marcia Treiger Archival Ink Jet 28 x 36

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UNTITLED By John Cage I have nothing to say And I am saying it And this is poetry! As I needed it

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FOREST PATH By Joanmarie Whittinghill Oil 18 x 10 ½

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TREES by Joyce Kilmer (1886-1918 ) I think that I shall never see A poem lovely as a tree. A tree whose hungry mouth is prest Against the earth's sweet flowing breast; A tree that looks at God all day, And lifts her leafy arms to pray; A tree that may in summer wear A nest of robins in her hair; Upon whose bosom snow has lain; Who intimately lives with rain. Poems are made by fools like me, But only God can make a tree.

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TIGER By Joanmarie Whittinghill Colored Pencil 20 x 16

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THE TYGER by William Blake (1794 ) Tyger ! Tyger ! burning bright In the forests of the night, What immortal hand or eye Could frame thy fearful symmetry? In what distant deeps or skies Burnt the fire of thine eyes? On what wings dare he aspire? What the hand dare sieze the fire? And what shoulder, & what art. Could twist the sinews of thy heart? And when thy heart began to beat, What dread hand? & what dread feet? What the hammer? what the chain? In what furnace was thy brain? What the anvil? what dread grasp Dare its deadly terrors clasp? (Continued)

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When the stars threw down their spears, And watered heaven with their tears, Did he smile his work to see? Did he who made the Lamb make thee? Tyger ! Tyger ! burning bright In the forests of the night, What immortal hand or eye Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

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VISUAL POETRY slide show prepared by Gainor Roberts, Art Curator of the Gallery at Carrollwood Cultural Center Show Judge: Doré Anderson, Artist and Poet All the Music is by Chopin Barcarolle in F# Op. 60 Played by Vladimir Ashkenazy from the Album “Personal Collection” Fugue in A-, KKIVc /2 Played by Vladimir Ashkenazy from the Album “ Chopin Polonaises Nocturne in E op72 Played by Claudio Arrau from the Album “Twilight: Chopin for Dreaming” Rondo in C op 73 Played by Frederic Chiu from the Album “Chopin: 12 Etudes, etc.” Nocturne No.1 in B flat Played by Vladimir Ashkenazy from the Album “Chopin Adagios” Nocturne No. 2 in E flat Played by Vladimir Ashkenazy from the Album “Chopin Adagios” Nocturne No. 3 in B Played by Vladimir Ashkenazy from the Album “Chopin Adagios” Waltz in C# Played by Vladimir Ashkenazy from the Album “Ultimate Classical Piano Work by Chopin etc. All Artworks presented in this exhibition are the property of the artist and may not be copied without permission. Most paintings are for sale and may be purchased directly by contacting the artist. Call 813 469-1641 (Art Curator) for artist contact information.