About Me~, art, chronic illness, Poetry, Uncategorized, Writing

Fluid ~



85d579a3a0aeb77d2ca7fb5e9229b0e9 (1)It waters the Earth, and the flowers , trees and all things green.

The lovely yet jangled noise of it on the tin roof of my house,

reminds me that it is good for all living things.

And yet, my broken body , shrinks into itself,

when it sees the clouds on the horizon.

Bringing with it the ache of the dark forces of weather.

And then it comes full -force.

I see it dripping from the eaves, in perfect timing,

reminiscent of a thousand drops of  intravenous fluids.

The rivulets of rain , coming sharp and fast,

like needles in the hundreds of hands ,

I’ve been subject to.

I remind myself , “It is only rain. “

And yet my subconscious whispers ………….

“It is only rain………….for now.

About Me~, art, inspirational, Poetry, Uncategorized, Writing

Crossings ~


I’ve always been fascinated with eyes. From the time I was small , and realized I could draw , I was determined to get the shapes and forms of eyes realistically captured on paper. Human eyes, animal eyes.  I can’t remember a time in my life when I didn’t love looking at people’s eyes when they spoke. It seemed to me they spoke volumes about what it was they were really saying.  I never really realized until I was grown that although a person could be telling you one thing with their words,  that their eyes could be telegraphing something  quite different.

I guess there’s quite a whole psychology behind that kind of thing now, and educated folks who know about that kind of stuff would say I probably have some kind of a complex or something. That whole Nietzsche quote , “And if you gaze long enough into an abyss, the abyss will gaze back into you. ” , and all that jazz.  I’m not so sure that’s what old Friedrich meant.   I’m more inclined to believe in the Biblical standpoint of Matthew 6 :22  “The light of the body is the eye: if therefore thine eye be single, thy whole body shall be full of light.”

So I guess, really it’s my unconscious way of gauging whether I like you or not. My mother has always joked that I have an instant people -radar . Either I like you or I don’t. First impressions, ALWAYS. And I think it’s the eyes. I can just kind of tell , ” Yep. Me and these peeps , we’re gonna’ be friends.  Or these people are shady, I don’t like ya’ now, and I ain’t gonna’ like ya’ later.  Maybe that’s wrong of me. I’ve always tried to trust my intuition in those kinds of things, and in most cases it’s served me well.

Besides , eyes are quite beautiful , don’t you think? The colors, the shine, the slight twinkle that says they know something that you don’t. And that maybe, just maybe if you look long enough, they might let you in on the joke.

Very young eyes,  eyes full of life, and of course my very favorite , the eyes of the very old. The things they’ve seen and the secrets they hold. If I could have a camera to capture it all.  But of course , the films are theirs. Memories only they choose, to keep wound on the reels of the 8mm cameras of their minds. And rightfully so.

  Because there is a word for this soul gazing  ~ Opia ~ The intensity of looking someone in the eye which can feel simultaneously invasive yet vulnerable .

 Perhaps Nietzsche WAS right in a sense,  but it’s not an abyss at all; it’s a crossing,  a sharing  of sorrows , of joys , of things unsaid,  and songs unsung, and a time passed between two like souls.


About Me~, art, Poetry, Uncategorized, Writing




It is Spring.

Or so they say.

The first day of that season,

which calls to new things. Green and bright.

The vernal equinox.

Equal parts,

glitter, and night.

I find Spring to be short-lived.

Perhaps it’s maudlin of me.

Spring seems easy. So colorful; flowers gold and purple.

But Spring is hard and born of death.

All the rotted things of Fall and Winter ,

feasted on by the bright young cannibals of  the now.

Fantasy wardrobes spun from worm-tossed bulbs left under snow,

last year.


About Me~, art, Poetry, Uncategorized, Writing

Installation ~


We think we cover it so well,

Layers and layers ,

to conceal  the imperfections,

those things we see as flaws.

Always afraid , they’ll be stripped away

by life’s unfeeling jaws.

But then you collide,

with another soul.

Whose vision seems almost  preternatural .

How did they come so close?

And then you realize,

their layers , are your layers.

Separate coats of gloss ,

but from the same brush.

The graffiti the same.

And suddenly , you are seen.

through all the misted layers of choke-filled smog  that smother the world.

You are heard,

in all the noise that blankets the city,

and then in that cacophony ; of brick and steel ,

taxis  and hearts rushing ,

the art coalesces.

Ruby Jeanette Woods 

Street Art by Eduardo #Kobra 



Poetry, Uncategorized, world affairs, Writing

“O Death! or Good Riddance to 2016”




Come and gone,

and leaving in its wake ,

so many sorrows.

The Starman became Stardust….

and the Caterpillar went through The Looking Glass.

The Mockingbird flew away,

and old Blue Eyes flew too.

Purple Rain,

a Butterfly and a Bee,

“O,Death. O,Death,

won’t you spare me over ’til another year?

The Candy Man

took the sunshine with him,

and we were left singing a “broken Hallelujah.”

This year;this long and stumbling year,

refused to let go.

One last stab,

one more slice.

A Princess beloved ,

she had become a General ,

and stolen our hearts

all over again.

Twenty -sixteen, you have gone,

and left a bitter taste in our mouths.

Twenty- seventeen ………………..

Please? Be kind.


About Me~, Poetry, Uncategorized, world affairs, Writing

Sugar and Shade ~


Sugar and  Shade 

The lies we tell.

The little fictions that go so well

with the particular shade of lipstick we’ve chosen

for ourselves.

We decide those words don’t hurt anyone,

after all,

how badly could it hurt to smile ever so sweetly and say, something , anything.

We must drip , must let fall, the tumbled rounds of ice,

for glasses.

Voice honeyed-thick , cigar smoke and molasses

“Tea, on the porch anyone? Perhaps here in the shade?”

and then it’s

Midnight , magnolia, masquerade

rye gin and lemonade.

Tart, and sour, shifts of power,

the souls we sell,

not even our  own.

About Me~, Poetry, Uncategorized, Writing

Discarded Treasures ~


I approached quietly , and left

a small piece of my heart,

on the  park  bench.

As if somehow leaving it there,

meant I was waiting for the day , no , not even the day,

my life!

to start,

for some permission.

Would he see it?

Would he care?

Or would it simply be one more

discarded, tumbled, forgotten grubby lost unknown treasure. I watch with all the hopes , despairs, confusions, joys, consternation…………. Abruptly  , the man who lives in the apartment above me  grabs my arm , and with  sudden fervor

pulls me down from my window perch , where I watch so anxiously . Racing , with a strength I would not , no , could not have thought his own bird-like body could possess,  hurriedly we go, skipping first one step , and then two steps at a time ………..and then we are there.

The bench.

The boy.

And me, the  girl. I am standing , out of breath, trying to think of the words to explain .

The painted rock.

The old man.

I am only a child  here.

My words are jumbled.

There is  nothing  for me to  say, it is  just a grubby , lost unknown treasure, I mumble.

It is okay, the boy  says. The old man is his uncle. The boy  is NOT new here, the old man says,  he has  seen that you like books, and walks. And benches. And wanting  to learn about quiet things, like that which is  discarded, and hopes, and unknown treasures. And  in time, together , you   will  think of the right words to explain.