Unseen life

 What are years?
             ~ by Marianne Moore
What is our innocence,
what is our guilt? All are
naked, none is safe. And whence
is courage: the unanswered question,
the resolute doubt, –
dumbly calling, deafly listening-that
in misfortune, even death,
encourage others
and in it’s defeat, stirs
the soul to be strong? He
sees deep and is glad, who
accedes to mortality
and in his imprisonment rises
upon himself as
the sea in a chasm, struggling to be
free and unable to be,
in its surrendering
finds its continuing.
So he who strongly feels,
behaves. The very bird,
grown taller as he sings, steels
his form straight up. Though he is captive,
his mighty singing
says, satisfaction is a lowly
thing, how pure a thing is joy.
This is mortality,
this is eternity.

frailty takes wing

Frailty Takes Wing (34″ x 46″ Ink)

It is often the acceptance of our weakness that gives us freedom.


life's knots

Life’s Knots (11″x14″ Ink)

“There is scarcely any passion without struggle.”
― Albert Camus


awaiting the sun

Awaiting the Sun (30″ x 40″ Ink)

“Those who do not move, do not notice their chains.”
― Rosa Luxemburg


Missing beauty


Unfinished beauty (33″x43″ Ink)

“The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph. What we obtain too cheap, we esteem too lightly; it is dearness only that gives everything its value. I love the man that can smile in trouble, that can gather strength from distress and grow.”
― Thomas Paine


One Small Seed

One Small Seed (33″ x 43″ Ink)

We are constantly planting seeds, intentionally or unintentionally. Each seed we plant has the ability to change a life. We never know what will become of one small seed.


Unseen life

What is Hidden Gives Life (36″ x 48″ Ink)

“The unseen is proved by the seen.” Walt Whitman



The Little Prince’s Rose (33″ x 43″ Ink)

“To be sure an ordinary passerby would think that my rose looked just like you – the rose that belongs to me. But in herself alone she is more important than all the hundreds of other roses; because it is she that I have watered; because it is she that I have listened to, when she grumbled, or boasted, or even sometimes when she said nothing. Because she is my rose. It is the time I have wasted on my rose that makes my rose so important.”

~ Saint-Exupéry


2 thoughts on “Ink”

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How Pure a Thing is Joy

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