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Faces from the Forest / very.bad.art@gmail.com SEE OUR GALLERY at www.youtube.com/brotherguy67

Our Hope Through Poetry

In one of the books from The Imagination Workshop, a character says, "Hope is faith in yourself."

Ouir goal is to instill that faith through your personal expression in writing and arranging the castoff elements of trees. Such beauty should not be discarded.

The actual sculpture here is a four-foot high,

two-foot wide door; it is about three and a

half inches thick, allowing for the protrusions

of the antique doorknob, and burls that serves

as mock hinges and other add-ons. The knob

is of glass, and adds a striking reality.

This piece is quite light and may be either

propped against a wall, or hung.

The No Where Door

Please take a long and heartfelt look,

to see my door as a book,

whose old and rusty hidden hinges,

hide dark secrets causing cringes.

in the most corageous souls,

who should venture nears my shoals.

Carved and glassy my doorknob glistens,

luring unsuspecting missions,

of treasure seekers hopeful of mind,

behind my door a prize to find,

to fulfill their fleeting whims,

with warmth and pleasure to the brim.

Dear searcher... let me save frustration,

for in life there is no station,

where trains of thought may freely go,

transporting dreams from hope to grow.

So from my door of questions posed,

go away and leave it closed.

Forget what wonders may live behind,

and leave then to... the imgaination...

of your mind.

There are no boundaries in written expression; there is no one to please except yourself. Take your ideas and bind them tenderly into a volume and place it in a position of honor. This is your personal cheering section, proclaiming YOU DID IT!

Twisted & Torn...

Withered & Worn...

These Are Our Faces From The Forest

Lost Feathers in the Forest

This poem accompanies a sculpture of a small ceramic owl, beside an 8-inch high, hollow limb. One small branch hangs

out. Eyes have been affixed to this wrinkled stub.

The baby owl, while first flying ...lost some feathers but kept trying,

to learn to soar just like his mother, and cath up to his streaking brother.

Fell it down to the forest floor, laid on leaves with a body sore,

tried to rise but olny limped, for its wings were badly crimped.

Rustling leaves... it hobbled on, hooting out a small owl song,

trying hard to find some joy, in a world that (with him) now toyed.

Came he to a twisted tree, hurt and silent as was he,

asked the tired little owl, "What brought about your cry-like scowl?"

"The storms... they came and robbed from me, the beauty deserving of a tree,

so now I hide and dearly wish, to disappear with a wind-blown swish."

The owl was quiet for quite a while, then brightened up with a beaky smile,

fluttered out his useless wings, feeling deeply a communal ring.

"I think I know how you feel, I have lost a part that's real,

my wings can't carry me aboce, across the skies that I love."

The disfigured tree alone there stood, forced a grin that understood,

the struggles of the injured owl, and shared a fate that runs afoul.

"If you will stay and be my beauty, I can shield you from the night,

together we can live be companions, protected from all fearful frights."

To this day in a forest deep, a bonded promise both do keep,

retuning gifts that once were taken, gaining peace that will never be shaken.

Do you have any questions? Send us an e-mail at:

very.bad.art@gmail.com