Out of the Gutter Art

Category: Florida Artist

  • What You Made Me Feel (Blue-Eyed Johnny)

    What You Made Me Feel (Blue-Eyed Johnny)

    Photo by Clement percheron on Pexels.com

    So Long Ago was Yesterday; I thought it was Gone…but I was wrong. I understand now; I was stuck Here all along.

    Now that I know, can I go?

    No. Not now, maybe not ever. You have to remember, see? I need you to remember me. My family long ago passed on, they kept my picture right above the mantle, and I carried theirs’. I carried ours. Draped it around my 18 year-old neck like the roses on a Derby winner; around my neck like the rifle I carried. Around my neck just like my dog tags-the one’s that made that certain sound when they touched. You must remember. I am not a ghost, there are no such things. I am just a memory, dead in the dust, gone like the wisp of smoke that curled from the tip of the gun that killed me. Remember me, now and then.

    A wisp of smoke…

    More now. The children are on the battlefields today- at this very minute-with eyes of cornflower blue. Searching the horizon, squinting against the glare of sunlight that slants off the desert rock like a razor. Blue eyes scanning roadsides, green eyes scouring midnight skies for tell-tale vapor trails. Brown eyes staring blindly back at the insides of their night vision goggles, looking into eternity.

    ” Sweet Child in time, you ought to see the line-the line that’s drawn between the goodness and the bad. See the blind man? He’s shooting at the world; the bullets flying, taking their toll…If you’ve been bad (lord, I’ll bet you have) and you’ve not been hit, not been hit by flying lead; you’d better close your eyes-you’d better bow your head…

    Wait for the ricochet.”

    ©DeepPurple Sweet Child in Time

    Flashback 937

    I came across this post I wrote a few years ago, and it resonates with me today in light of recent events. War is always the worst of mankinds’ inhumanity, nothing has changed in the years since Vietnam. I was a baby when first exposed to war thru a little black box that sat on a shelf next to where Mother sat me in my crib some 50 odd years ago. To this day the sound of chopper blades overhead stops me in my tracks; I peer up in questioning wonder-not sure what I am looking for. Maybe my Mom’s cammo-clad lover to rappel down and proclaim fatherhood of me, maybe for shots to ring out and stop my questions forever…

    Today I am exposed to a little black tablet that bombards me with images of my unborn sons and daughters dressed in their uniforms, riding in Hummers, riding in wheelchairs, riding in hearses, riding away, always away…Day after dreaded year the casualties mount while my one life ebbs away: How many have sacrificed themselves in my 57 years? Have I even cried that many tears in this lifetime? How many is enough (Children? Tears?) to give to the General’s who orchestrate this endless miserable charade.

    I feel sick. All the time. And when I think of Johnny, I cry. I know and I believe and I am promised and he is promised, PROMISED a resurrection by the One true Ruler of this Universe, so soon I will hold my soldier in my arms and look long into those crystal blue living eyes.

    Until then, I will think of Blue-Eyed Johnny, and I will remember…

    with love.

  • Calling Down thru the Centuries

    Calling Down thru the Centuries

    • “Visionaria”sold
    • “Exquisite Aloneness” work in progress
    • Reaching Out, acrylic on canvas, Work in Progress, Susan T. Martin 2017

         Tracing a Trail of Tears…

       The Trail, so long ago. Now see the traces of hot tears down our dusty cheeks. Feel the same blood pumping thru these veins as in those:

        Red like the purest ruby, and it will pour forth if you cut us. Your words cut like the edge of a knife, a ruby red blade across a human throat.

       Do not gloat, you who know the glut of Buffalo meat, blood red heart still beating in hand, Son of man.

        A man of the Sun, of the People, the Black Hills, the Antelope Valley…The Mohawk mountains, man.  The salmon-colored sands of the Sonoran Desert.

       We chased the sidewinder, ran with roadrunners. Our feet bled walking empty highways, empty citrus groves, riding empty boxcars.

       We are women, tired and beaten. Down the tears ran like the scars on our back, scars on our heart.

       Where are you, raven-haired brother? Do you hear me , calling across the centuries?   

       Does my black mother bear my sorrow, black Mother-bear?

        Alone now; my voice reaches all the way around this broken bowl of me

       The wind washes the empty, clay basin of my soul…

       I am not whole-I wholly am not holy, man.

       Holy man, what is better than this sweet sorrow?

       Or more bitter medicine than this abiding pain, Medicine man?

  • A Neighbor’s Dying

    A Neighbor’s Dying

    I have a special place inside my heart for fellow addicts. Those without the ability to get clean, without a relationship with God, without a friend in the world. Carrying the weight of the huge monkey on his back.

    I talked to him from time to time, tried to impart some nugget of wisdom, a ray of hope. He would say, “I wish a train would hit me”.

    I remember that level of despair. That loathing for anything good in my life, because I did not deserve it. Hating my very being, a degraded piece of trash, discarded by society. Abandoning all hope, embracing the darkness.

    The pain is excruciating. It is no wonder he wished for death.

    I live across the street from his Grandma’s, where he would stay, in her laundry shed-shooting heroin. I saw him go from a funny, kind of hillbilly guy to a wretch with bloody scabs oozing down his arms. The last time I saw him he said he was really sick this time, he thought he had Covid. Well, it wasn’t Covid. First time the ambulance came, he had OD’d. They brought him back.

    This time, though, it isn’t the dope… They took him to hospital with pneumonia and a Blood infection, his very sad Grandma told me. He won’t be coming home, barring a miracle.

    I just hope they have made him comfortable…and that he doesn’t suffer for long. Poor, poor, Chris… I guess maybe your train finally came. I have said prayers for him and his family, and for everyone sick and dying…

    I will dream tonight of my Monarchs. I saw a caterpillar tonight who had just connected himself to the bottom of my wheelbarrow. He has probably changed into a chrysalis now. Soon he will totally disappear into a liquid, before miraculously turning into a beautiful Monarch, breaking out of the chrysalis and flying free!

    I hope you fly free too , my friend. I will see you again, one day soon.

    UNCHAINED, UNCUFFED, Mixed Media on Board, $400.00 (Available)

  • HOW TO SHAKE IT UP, BABY!!!

    HOW TO SHAKE IT UP, BABY!!!

    First things First>DO NOT GIVE UP!!

    take the time you need to heal, then: GET UP ON YOUR FEET AND FIGHT!

    “It’s not the size of the Dog in the Fight…It’s the size of the FIGHT in the Dog…”

    Mark Twain

    My physical health knocked me down for the past 2 weeks, any headway I had made in my Art Practice seemed to be slip-sliding away! I had given myself a wake up call, determined to make this a great year for my self expression. Motivated by many hours of study in art history, and of the great Masters, then the Impressionists, And on down thru the centuries…

    I was Fired Up and hitting on all cylinders! I even sought some marketing advise, only to be told that I had no idea what I was doing and probably never would. Ahhh, welll. That’s nothing new, my Dad told me that for 40 years!

    I will not let negative remarks cloud my Artistic Vision! As long as I am able, I will use this gift to tell my story: Sometimes messy, sometimes hard to look at…

    BUT ALWAYS UNIQUELY MY OWN! Hooray for Me, and for You!

    So, I had been sidelined, but I still have 5 works in 4 shows across the US right now! Not bad for a loser!!

    Just Being ME is Awesome! (detail “A Wee Bit Peckish” now showing at Woodwalk Gallery online)