Archive for the ‘iPhone art’ category

Head Household

February 20, 2013

Brain in Bed (With Dog)

Head Household

My home
is mottled grey; perhaps red/blue would
be better, chambered
rather than lobed–no matter–

Furnishings fuzz
to buzz; occupants (increasingly
occluded) defy
vacancies, sparks fry blinds that tilt
over streaked glass; you try
to knock, I don’t
always answer, rooms fold in
on themselves.


This is a very rough draft poem for Real Toads “words matter” (i.e. keep it short) challenge hosted by Mama Zen to write about a toad’s house.  (Toad as in writing participant.)

I am in the midst of moving; much was placed and transported today in an extremely cold truck.   I’m sorry to be slow in responding to people – I wrote this poem, more or less, while standing in the truck bed, guarding stuff.   A reposting of picture too – brain in bed with Pearl!  Not really suited for poem – but really, how often can you post a brain in bed!?  (I am writing of the metaphorical little grey cells = yes, I understand they are pink in pic.)

Note that I’ve edited since first posting.


January 20, 2013


Untouched (or re-touched.)

No one stung either, thankfully.

A Question Of Cropping and Lady Bugs

October 15, 2012



Duck (And Cover) Friday Flash 55

September 28, 2012




Worry, jogging, what to do–ducks ahead, my memory jogged to daughter in ER (years ago) with duck-bitten thumb–those bills tough on cracker=holding digits–till digital-fixation overcomes hesitation; I dumbly pull out smartphone like a shield.

Click-click. Ducks, luckily camera-shy, fly.  Good thing they are not paparazzi-loving bears.


Here’s some 55 tufts of Friday fluff (belated) for my friend the G-Man, Mr. Know-it-all.  Enjoy the weekend.  Don’t get any duck bites!!!!!

And if you’ve got a mo, check out my books!  Poetry, GOING ON SOMEWHERE, (by Karin Gustafson, illustrated by Diana Barco). 1 Mississippi -counting book for lovers of rivers, light and pachyderms, or Nose Dive, a very fun novel that is perfect for a pool or beachside escape.  Nose Dive is available on Kindle for just 99 cents!

“Record-Keeping” (Huitain, Aging Brain) (Also Flash 55)

August 16, 2012



Aging brain blanks–record skipping a beat.
Do you, reading this, have any notion
what a record is?  (Was?) These super-neat
spun disks.  Blank aging brain jumps to ‘ocean,’
‘Bonnie,’ ‘sea’–the mysterious motion
of bringing back; and what does re-cord mean
but rebraiding the unmoored? Devotion
spinning us back from wayward to midstream.


The above rather odd poem is a huitain, an eight-line poem from the French (or Spanish) that follows a certain rhyme scheme.   I’m not quite sure where my aging brain has taken itbut I am posting it for a dVerse Poets Pub “Form For All” challenge hosted by Gemma Wiseman and Gay Reiser Cannon.  For more on huitains, check out Gemma’s article at dVerse.   (The picture was amazingly done on my iPhone, with wonderful Brushes App plus Hudson River.) 

Also, please, tell it to the G-Man, because the poem is, amazingly, 55 words!!!!!

Also, if you have time, check out my books!   Poetry, GOING ON SOMEWHERE,  (by Karin Gustafson, illustrated by Diana Barco).    1 Mississippi -counting book for lovers of rivers, light and pachyderms, or Nose Dive, a very fun novel that is perfect for a pool or beachside escape.

P.S. Not sure about that re-braiding – maybe plain old re-tying –


June 18, 2012


Not really Comic or Super Poem (For dVerse Poets Pub “Comic” Prompt) (But at least has elephant)

December 3, 2011

Here’s a new poem (too long–sorry–and still very much a draft), written for dVerse Poets Pub “Poetics” challenge relating to comics.    The drawing (done on my iPhone) doesn’t really suit the poem, but I couldn’t resist using it.

Power of Choice or Need

My childhood comic of choice was Archie and heroine
Betty, (fellow blonde and would-be
do-gooder), even though doing good,
in those comics, seemed
synonymous with disappointment.

Of course, the disappointment, was only in the long-lashed eye
of the short-sighted; those impatient
grasping sorts who did not
understand that good-hearted losses,
like all karmic set-backs, must turn golden (i.e. blonde)
at the end, as the universal
balance of good and evil (i.e. Betty’s cute turned-up nose vs.
Veronica’s snooty turned-up nose) righted itself, and a date
with Archie was achieved.

But now that I have no hope of cinched-in waist,
parabolic breasts, or a date with even a
rather bumbling teen throb, my sites turn to the super, those
tragic but helpful figures, only I think
that if I could grow a super power of choice or need, it
would sprout not in my limbs, but inside my heart, taking
the crud of resentment
as its Krypton;
transforming the sting (recurrent)
of abandonment into
the spark of a magic spider’s
teeth.  (With what else
do they bite?)
Morphing the hurt that embeds the claw
into the wide yaw
of empathy; telescoping
that chopped controlling beat into
a galaxy of embrace whose
planets orbit some other sun, where
there are no black holes, and where love, like other
universal forces, can be found in the radial outreach
of just about everything (sound waves from dropped pin,
ringed water round skipped stone, mossy antlers on
rutting stag, maple branches in
wet snow, the listening

It would be a strength, I think,
inked in the unhealed, unhealing heart, allowing it
to flow with the currents of uncertainty,  to
fly vulnerable.