Brill Artworks

Sunless twilight, cyanotype, and no sand to walk on

up and down the beach.

The hill crumbles under my feet, and I keep stepping backwards

trying to stay safe.

If I jump into the waves, will I sink or stand?

Will I be swept away or free myself into dry land?

The ocean darkens by the minute and salt makes my nose twitch.

Fighting the wind, I grab my hat with both hands. If it flies away, will I let it go?

Or just let go?

I turn and leave, ignoring the roar of the siren’s song.

The tide waits for another day

or someone else.

A lonely puzzle piece catches my eye on the street,

A tropical forest so far from here, the piece doesn’t fit in this city.

I squat to look at it and wonder where it leads.

An owl hoots, but if it’s here or there, I can’t tell.

The forest glows and it beckons me, but I’m too big to fit into it and a moth stays away.

A rat scurries by and keeps a respectful distance, but whether from me or the forest, it’s a mystery.

A car startles me and the puzzle vanishes, as if it never existed.

The street, now empty, has no other signs of life, and only windows show any movement.

Those lights are pale compared to the forest I just saw, but they are here and the puzzle is gone.

I stumble out, avoiding crowds,

Try to focus on the sky, see nothing but fog.

Dust floats in a swirly dance, swimming in and out as I trudge by.

People only visible in the corner of my eye evade my stare, hurry and hide.

Behind curtains, in darkened rooms, away from windows where lights shine.

I look up and discern a pattern, a face that darkens as people sleep.

And soon I’m alone in an empty train, further underground, farther away.

The air chimes, singing in the whirly breeze.
Blossoms sparkle, different colors dotting the street.
Bright fog, the sun may still show up today.
Coffee wakes me up in this late afternoon, and who knows,
maybe my mood will shine.

The sky blinks blue for an instant,
and everything changes, the air growing silent.
A bee floats by, removed from time.
I lose a second somewhere,
maybe a minute.
No one to notice in the empty street.
I rush away, the radio keeping me in the here and now.
Soon I hear of mass shootings everywhere.
My heart aches for the dead, some never to grow up.
Now it’s summer, spring no more. I wonder where the dead are now.

When dreaming is a preferable state, one forgets which day is today.

Light changes with the sun, but does that matter?

Suspended we are, in a verse or another.

Clouds come and go. Everything becomes darker and the sky announces rain.

Dates mark change in hours, but we live in another land.

We make our own time.

A flutter of wings it’s what I hear

as you dash through the forest.

So fast,

all I see is the ghost of a blur as the dust tries to settle.

In and out of sight you go,

with golden threads shining in the sun.

My thoughts see you, but my eyes falter,

and the trees won’t tell me where you went.

We meet in the finish line and you laugh:

“You can’t run, Mama!”

“No,” I smiled back. “But we can meet when you’re done.”

The sun distorts into a golden teardrop,

stretching as it refuses to leave until it sinks below the horizon.

No farther West to go unless on a boat to distant lands,

I think of those whose light no longer shines.

Goodbye I whisper, and watch the clouds dance as multicolored dragons.

The sand starts to cover the road and I hurry home.

Time to dream.

Some time later, a woolen scarf flies away and lands on a tree branch,

its owner amazed about how it got there.

Spirits watch.

My day comes in a series of blinks:

I blink myself awake, a process that takes three alarms and myself rolling out of dreams.

I blink at my coffee, wishing it a triple espresso, but that only comes true once a week.

My eyes close in the shower, the warm water inspiring me to create my day.

Another blink in traffic, wishing the red light green.

So much needs my attention, my working day ends right after it starts,

but the sky is now deep with lazuli mystery.

The new moon is on the other side of the world,

but I can now go home and dream again.

The stairway up to the room needed no glitter.

With the movie about to start, I didn’t linger on the steps,

but a metallic fuchsia ribbon twirled on the ground,

followed by another, some feet away, leading me to where I needed to go.

Whether there for hours or seconds before I showed up, it didn’t matter,

but as I reached the top of the stairs and turned round to find them,

the were gone. In their place, the air glowed.

Dry leaves follow me as I stride on uprooted sidewalks.
A soap bubble gives me pause as it floats by, destination unseen.
Hunter’s blue Moon with orange Mars next to it.
Altair, Jupiter, Saturn, Fomalhaut, I stare at them all, amazed.
I try to find them every night, and they feel like friends.
It’s so much easier to get lost in the heavens than to think of Earth.
November darkness came and the sky feels closer.
On Earth, no outlet for the year, even beyond December 31st.
Promises of 2021 flood the radio, but I don’t believe them.
I can only count on the stars and tonight I see Orion.

Blunts cuts we see in landscapes of time and geology.
Through countless rotations we should learn,
this planet needs no saving.
Illusion…
We’ll bob until we crash, whether on rocks or the side of cliffs,
and we kid ourselves thinking we’ll be here forever.
These words will be washed away when the tide comes,
and it’s coming.
Count on it.

I get in the tempo,

no innuendos,

I`m on a crescendo,

ready to jam.

High-pitched wonders,

no time for blunders,

the spell I`m under,

I swear I could dance.

The rhythm is brassy,

and the trumpets, so sassy!

This tango’s snazzy,

full of mixed flair tunes.

The singer enthuses,

and the drums are amused.

We’re all feeling loose,

but we now sing the blues.

Hovering between here and never

the summer, confused,

scatters leaves in the wind and drops fruit on the ground.

The petals, some still clinging to daffodils,

try to make a last stand, at least until the next rain.

They may dry until then, I say, I`m not sure about this year.

The night falls in waves,

As the wind goes and comes back.

Dark clouds block the sun.

Finally, the sun,

Surprising us with blue sky.

Then the fog returns.

The night you left us,

A new moon blessed the sky.

You live in our hearts.

Stuck at home, pandemic outside, the best time is when I sleep and dream.

I dream we’re all fine, blacks and whites, all colors around each other.

No disease, no fear, no guilt we made a loved one die.

The movies I watch and books I read, all take me away and I forget,

until the movie ends or I mark the page,

and I remember.

Oh yes, I’m alone here.

First autumn day, but it was 80 degrees and I smelled jasmine in the air.

The cafe beckoned me with the scent of croissants. Its door had been ajar for hours.

It felt like springtime. The drummer at the corner picked up the rhythm as I crossed the street.

A day later, much hotter, it felt like summer and the drummer found a shade.

A butterfly landed on my hair just to fly away. The sky was still blue but for one cloud.

Still I wear black.

I arrived and heard the hostess speak in a language from a far away time.

No translation.

The wind outside beckoned, whistling around corners,

Swaying trees, turning them into dancers.

Inside, the air was thick with the smells of anxiety, people and drinks,

and I saw clicks already formed, each crunch of crackers grating my brain.

The wine, passed among the chosen few and greedily protected,

was as unreachable as the snack table, hidden behind gate keepers,

as if the last meal on Earth.

I stood by the door, hearing the lure of the wind.

“Come with me and you’ll breathe,” it sang.

As minutes passed, a headache helped my decision and I left to fly away,

Joining the wind and surrounding myself with twilight.

On a good day I smell lilies,

and on a bad day the smoke of fires up North invade my lungs and I cough.

On a good day I taste wine,

and on a bad day the water from the faucet hurts my stomach and I vomit.

On a good day I hear birds chirping,

and on a bad day gunfire aimed at no one in particular makes me hide.

On a good day I see the ocean and I’m just a figment in someone’s dream,

and on a bad day the images of war and famine make me wish I lived

in another universe,

where perhaps ICE only spelled froze water.

Reading about logic in bed on a road flanked by the sea on both sides,

I fall asleep, waking up as the tide rushes in.

Holding my book with my teeth, I swim to the closest of three islands I see.

Upon my arrival the locals take my book away.

“You can stay”, they shout, “but you can’t keep it.”

They toss my book over a cliff and I dive into the ocean after it,

And swim with it to a kinder shore.

A sliver of moon

hides behind a thick rain cloud.

Weather changes fast.

Winds carried the ashes for hundreds of miles,

and we breath what’s left over of burnt forests.

Our sky is threatened by an orange glow,

and I duck into a theater where the air is cleaner.

On screen, a dream of super heroes saving the world.

The sky is white when the movie ends, and I’m relieved.

The fog cleaned the air.

Man talks to himself

or does he talk on his phone?

He sings to someone.

Brunette baby in a white dress,

white ribbons,

white hat.

Blond mother in yellow dress, cat eye sunglasses,

pushing white stroller with perfectly manicured nails.

Everything glows in the hot summer sun.

Neighbor children come to see.

What a sight, the princess and her baby!

But the children have snots on their faces and mud on their hands.

The baby shrieks and the children laugh.

The closer they come, the louder the baby screams.

The princess pivots the stroller and strides away,

the baby still screaming.

Years pass and the baby, now a mother, pushes her own baby girl,

but on a navy blue stroller.

The baby wears purple, and the mom?

Well, the mom wears black.

The light of long gone stars dazzle and blink,

while three moons in the sky make my path as bright as day.

Darkness is just around the corner and it lingers in combinations of melancholic chords.

It strikes me by surprise at the end of a song.

The forest is alive and it beckons me.

I dance alone.

The screen on my phone, now forever dark.

No texts to see, no numbers to search.

Only a few numbers I remembered, and without confirmation.

Every number I pressed, an anxiety problem,

always hoping to find the right person.

Every chime of text led to a hopeless shrug. No way to know.

The ones I called knew who I was,

but I was clueless until the first hello.

A veil lifted when my new phone arrived. I lost texts and photos, but the numbers remained.

Reading books on a subway train.

An enthralling story takes me away and blocks everything else.

But 120 decibels of sound can make or break a dream,

And an irritating book becomes even more grating,

Bringing people, lights and smells into focus.

I close my eyes and hold my breath.

The torture persists.

Ear plugs next time, so I can blink and fly by.

Two trains pass, too full to board,

And an empty third is taking no one.

The sign overhead shows gyrating numbers, nothing for certain.

It never is, really. Even if I board I don’t know when I’ll arrive.

Where will I be?

I open a book and see a train, dancing in the corner of my eye,

but it’s just another person asking for something, too fast to focus, disappearing up the stairs before I have a chance to give him a snack.

What time is it? Does it matter? I’m never on time.

The world is running out of service,

No idea who can fix it.

We stand and stare, equidistant from each other and switching weight from left to right,

as the sole barista makes one more hazelnut decaf almond latte for the overdressed gem with 300.00 keratin job.

She needs six cups, and her friend hangs to her every word.

The espresso machine roars the only help to muffle the monologue, even more vapid on Sunday at 9 am.

I step to the counter and tell Fred I’m taking it plain and grab a cup. Other follow suit.

Gem leaves and returns, her friend like a puppy at her side.

“Are you sure this one is decaf?”, she asks, twisting her nose while pointing at a cup in the tray.

Fred hangs his head and drops his shoulders.

“Not sure,” he shrugs, and makes another.

I stare at the TV, and any mountain view is better than here and now.

The air clears after the door closes behind them.

Communal relief.

7:30 chimes me back into a present,

but I’d rather be in my dream where the sun warms my face

and my feet squeeze sand between my toes.

I blink and 8:16 glares at me, waking me from a trek to a library that seems unreachable.

The beach is gone, and the library is on the other side of Guanabara Bay.

Another continent.

Outside, the wind blows the sun into rain.

I take photos of the drops hitting my window and the refracted light takes me away.

I want to stay in my bubble and wait for the sun to return.

But the gray sky tells me to wait for another day.

70 degrees on a February evening,I stand on a platform waiting for the subway.

Honeysuckle fragrance alerts me about confusion in the local flora.

The trees don’t care it’s February.

For them it’s springtime, so they bloom.

I smell jasmine, but no one seems to notice any aroma, too busy staring at their cell phones.

Someone blows bubbles, and I look around.

Source unknown.

Maybe they came from afar, carried by the breeze, just like the honeysuckles.

Soon the weather turns cold again.

Where will the flowers go?

I was walking alone at 10:15 pm.

Someone passed by me.

Nothing to notice, they could have been a disembodied soul.

Then he said “Hey, aren’t you” and snapped his fingers three times.

I kept walking, ignored him.

The shadow moved on, and disappeared.

Clouds but no rain,

Sun without heat,

Waterfall that glows like fire when the sunset angles just so.

One flash and it’s over.

I wait in vain for more to come.

Too much love made the well run dry.

At the beach the waves are tame, but I can’t go any further.

I back away without drowning. Simply cold.

I grow numb.

Yes, in bold capital white letters on a red background,

the button at the store announced to the world that FACTS MATTER.

I chuckled and bought it, 99 cents of inspiration, admonition, challenge.

But do facts really matter, I wonder.

Gravity so far is a fact, and it matters. If you jump off a building, unless a tornado carries you away, you will splat upon reaching the ground.

If you code, 1+1 would be 11, instead of 2, and for people of reproductive age,  1+1 could be 3, 4 (twins!) and so on.

A little humor and a lot to think about.

We can still reply on Math, for the most part, but Science is a tricky subject in certain parts of the world.

In Kansas they still don’t wanna teach Darwinism,

and some Muslim clerics think that masturbation may eventually create earthquakes.

Some people think they can stop a bullet with a hardcover book. Darwin award for the guy who tried.

And our president refuses to sanction Russia despite bipartisan approval from Congress. Shocker.

Some people don’t care about facts. The list goes on, and I could run out of space.

I’ll leave you to ponder, which facts matter to you ?

I taste the cold minty air, a mixture of pine, ash and eucalyptus trees. The very air is green.

January.

Blue sky at 9:30 am, no trace I see of last night’s downpour.

On a leafless branch atop an oak tree sits a crow, and I see shadows projecting like a spider web onto the building next door.

A family eyes me. Clad in black eyeing a black crow, I seem as if plucked from a Winter tale. They wear shorts, and we all belong.

Good morning folks, and Happy New Year.

The air turned icy now, and I see last night’s leftovers in puddles.

Rain may be coming, and no palette can reflect my feelings.

Sub-woofer blast, air vibration,

No template gig, disintegration.

Streets with tents, ground trepidation, no one to mend, lack of foundation.

Receiving hands with nothing to send, needles with litter, no sensation filter.

Sometimes I connect, forget to deflect, fleeting aspect, then away I defect.

Zombies remain in my periphery vision while I go

From A to B avoiding collision, no indecision, overloading vision.

I blink twice and there’s silence.

At the golden light when shadows stretch for miles,
She danced with a hula hoop twirling at the tip of her fingers,
Her clothes as transparent as she, her hair dancing like the leaves in the trees.
She raised her arms to the sky as her skirt glowed as the petals of a poppy flower
And she was gone, just to reappear, drenched again in golden light,
But she dissolved into nothing as the light turned blue.

I saw you today and my heart just stopped,

suspended in the droplets of yesterday’s rain,

still lingering in the leaves of drenched trees,

lingering in the lives of displaced me.

Petals of cherry blossoms floated about, diffracting light in little rainbows, making you a dream that cannot come to be.

I waited for a beat that sadly never came.

Still I dream and nothing is ever wrong, for it’s really just a dream.

Far away the lead-colored ocean showed no signs of the glowing sun peeking through the clouds.

In another universe it might, but not in this one,

and the waves pound the shore, tenaciously and brutally, eroding reality and dragging me away to sea.

I dreamed I was speeding so much, I came too fast around a curve and I went over a cliff,
but instead of plunging headfirst into rocks and waves, my van seemed to glide through the air and over the water,
and I just kept sliding to the nearest beach.
Such a defiance of common Physics, yet so attainable in quantum probability,
keeps happening throughout my life.
I think of all that had to happen for us to be together, and no matter how painful certain events were, I cannot change them, because if we are to live in linear time, I would not be here now, knowing what I know and seeing what I see.
The sun makes my eyes glow. People stare.
The occasional cloud changes the quality of the light and I look up. ​

Softly floating in the air in quasi weightless descent, the petals of the cherry tree fall without aim or plan and so do we, sometimes.
Being carried by a river that may either dry up or swell, life can change so swiftly, so dramatically!
What we want and dream of may never come to pass.
Our deepest desires many times, are not meant to be, and despite great effort our best plans fall flat.
We feel lost in a fog that hides enemies within.
Surrender or fight?
What should we do, if the outcome may be the same?

I wake up and it’s Wednesday, but it could be any day,

I forget which month it is, I don’t even know my age.

I press on Snooze three more times, until my reality settles,

But dreamland is still within arm’s reach.

I pick up a lucky penny from the floor, while ignoring my socks.

I’ll let them stay there an extra day, it inspires me to create.

I walk to the theater and wonder what time it is, but then I muse.
I’m not running or worrying, so what difference does it make?
One second, two minutes, I’ll get there in time, I know it.
I can even stop to muse again about this and that, time will wait.
The train back home is empty except for me with my book and some people’s blank faces, their skin paled by the glow of their phones.
I see one couple smiling at each other, but everyone else seems vacant.
We could all be in a movie, and I half expect people to point at me and scream, there goes the odd one, how dare you be different and read a book on paper?
The tunnel makes me think we’re on a boat to Hades, but I get off, alive with my book.

The calming scent of cherry blossoms permeates the air,
just recently cleansed by this morning’s downpour.
Just yesterday the dusty haze clung to my throat but now I feel light
So much rain in April this year, and yesterday so much sorrow for the Syrian dead.
There is sorrow everywhere, from the street dwellers to the pipeline protesters,
But the scent of cherry blossoms helps me believe for a moment that true peace can exist,
And for the next day I’ll see rain drops and keep dreaming.