Plumage of gold and green/
Saturated color, only in dreams/
She flies above my winter bed/
A ribbon tangled round her head/
Beauty’s song is muted now/
Yet so pure and eloquent/
I try to catch her, hold her down/
I need to know what her song meant/
Tag: Memory
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How Do I Always Get Here…How Do I Leave?
The Waterplant, mixed media on canvas by Susan T. Martin(sold) The torment of Immobility
Riding a wave, tall as a mountain, I rush headlong thru my day One project done, the next begun: All clarity-no haze. The transition came, I know not when(wound up on my butt again) I wandered thru today amazed: No clarity-just dazed. When does it happen/Why? I did not cause it/Did I? Now huddled under an ocean of covers, immobilized for days Not project done, not even begun Just futility-today. Where do I go to/Why? I do not cause it/Do I? I rode a wave, tall as a mountain, rushed headlong into here The vast Empty, the foreboding, feeling death is very near, The quiet is not tranquil, the peace turns into fear Will I find the will to struggle, will my vision ever clear? I would not wish this on an enemy, nor even onto me This terrible stuckness, it's inevitability Knowing it will leave doesn't help it go The pros say that will, but they don't really know I will find my meds, somehow take a few Sleep a dreamless sleep, tomorrow start anew Hope against all hope, stagnation soon will end I will be on top to ride that wave again.
Riding my wave, tall as a mountain, I run happily and play One project done, the next begun: All clarity-No haze... ©SusanTMartin2021allclarity
“Visionaria”sold -
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?
Out of the Gutter Art 
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