Monday, June 29, 2009

Imagination Getaway



Sometimes the imagination needs a little getaway. I painted a picture of one of the many locales my imagination visits to recharge and convalesce. Where does your imagination travel to when it needs a vacation? Can you draw or paint a picture of it, even if it's abstract? Can you describe that place in words?

"Imagination Getaway" is an Original Art piece created on a 3" x 5" index card for sale!
Great for the Collector of Mini art works.
Created with Ink, pastels and Colored Pencil.
Free shipping worldwide!
Click here to purchase, "Imagination Getaway"

Sunday, June 21, 2009

Father's Day 2009


For Hugh:

The ability to think in images
and set certain symbols free
comes from a man most comfortable in shadows
though born surrounded by sun and sea.

His wisdom emanates
like the solemn lights
from botanica candles,
evoking original firelight.
His torches of fatherly love ignite island roads,
branding cities in their streets.
My American days merge with memories of his Jamaican nights:
He and I have have shared symbols, journeys and travels:
I have found my father gazing along sand paths in Jamaica
a small child alone and awake at night
waiting for the riderless horse
that once carried and supported the weight of his own father.
Long before I was born,
I found myself apprenticed to my Father,
We fixed the broken Grandfather clock, together,
tinkering with it as small children
both of us listening to the voice in ourselves saying
that time, age and powerlessness are lies and illusions
-We can fix things, and if we've always been together
how could we ever fall apart?

The ability to dream in all colors
and define the woman I've wanted to be
comes from a man most comfortable in shadows
though born surrounded by sun and sea.

I've felt as scattered inside
as my father's family
my father's mixed heritage
begat mixed loyalties -
I, too have felt confused about all of the parts I am
and have felt ravaged inside -
parts of me torn apart.
I've believed in the illusion of any form of supremacy
and felt miniscule, when consumed by ignorance
of my heritage and history.
I've been that dutiful choir boy he was,
singing hymns for the congregation
swaying inside with the
ecstasy of spirituals.
My Father, future metaphysicist
young root doctor, energetic engineer
man-child of beaches and rivers
converging blood lines,
tributaries, winding veins.
When I finally make it through
the wide, unopened door of my father
I'm sure to find more glorious written and unwritten books
undiscovered herbs
placed carefully on handmade shelves.
Perhaps I'll find other rooms
which may contain suspended scenes from
My parent's first meeting which
began inside the poetry of a church
inside of the expressions of love
that he wrote to my Mother.
Expressions he never buried with her.
My brother and I would not exist
if not for the writing and reciting of these poems
written by my father, a former veteran, a forever soldier
a world within world traveler.

The passion to fight for love and self-expression
and voyage freely through my mind
comes from a man who with his inner wisdom
eradicated all sense of color, space and time.

One morning when we were walking, he
grabbed and held onto the light from
the sun presented its glow to me and said you
must shine your light with this intensity
burn down any obstacles
impeding your imagination
stay on sun-paths of truth.
I was astonished that the sun did not burn him.
One night, when we sat talking on our patio
he pointed directly to the moon brought it towards us,
balanced it on the tip of his index finger and
and twirled it around.
He said to me, "you've been here with many others
long before anybody went there with ships or machines.
You've already placed each brown foot in a crater
and declared the moon your finest shoes.
You are Queen and Solstice.
Woman and Goddess.
There is significance in your birth."
This man of shadows
this listener to angels, ancestors and dolphins
this rider of sub-sub marines
unfettered dancer
Jamaican King
my surviving parent
continues to shine light on possibilities
remembering, honoring, yet discarding the weights of cultures and colors
reminding us all of the infinite landscapes and geographies
of timeless times and better worlds.

Daddy, you've always been my soldier
my hero, my most, devoted confidante and committed guide.
I only dream big and deep
because your vision for me was far and wide.

Love you!

Tiffany Osedra Miller

Solstice

Saturday, June 20, 2009

Praise Him!

Thursday, June 18, 2009

The Ballad of the Boy



On a joyride over the underworld
I brought a woman to an end
In her last moments of life she said she hated me
but in death she swears she is my friend.
She tells me we could have been confidantes and lovers,
spies, dressed as a boy and a girl
uncovering Mama Noir's secrets
and traveling together
over the underworld
I will never ride with joy again
on sad street
or through the other place
unless I am driving to be with my
lover, confidante and friend
the one I never touched before I
brought her to an end.


Tiffany Osedra Miller

Wednesday, June 17, 2009

Saturday, June 13, 2009

Return

Friday, June 12, 2009

Portrait

Thursday, June 11, 2009

All Artists Must Be Soldiers: A Manifesto For Revolt


All Artists Must Be Soldiers:
A Manifesto for Revolt

To all my comrades, revelers and soldiers,
to my posse, my gang, my crew,
to all of you who have acquired higher weapons
to defend the soul in me and you.
To all you uncivilized artists
who paint pimps and prostitutes
diseases and guns
To all you religious fanatics
who weep
when you find you have painted the spirit
who had you speaking and singing in tongues
To all you writers who describe all of the battles and massacres
that you create inside your own minds
you are the first to call your hearts bomb-shelters
and convalesce there for periods of time.
To all of you under-educated illiterates
frustrated that your regiment considers you a mess
because when you tell stories of great insight and wonder
you're labeled simple but blessed.
To all of you who were raised on Hip-Hop, Motown and boleros,
-Wagner, Mozart and Bach
was just not your style
it's fine that all your heroes battled by break-dancing
and you hated ballet as a child.
To all the General Theories Of Color
the Sergeants of Anatomy, Sentence Structure and Form
The oral tradition was here long before you existed
and all colors mixed just fine before you were born.
To universities and well intentioned professors
and their masters; Shakespeare and Michelangelo,
Picasso and Dickens
you may find newer, better masters
hiding in corporations,
raising children and eating in soup kitchens.
If you never saw the statue of David
or inspected the hieroglyphs inside the pyramids
gazed at a Matisse or a Rembrandt
a flower or a plant
whatever you create is STILL brilliant and significant
even if someone says that what you just did you can't.
I insist that YOU set your own standard
your own opinion is valid and good
create what you consider outstanding
not what you think that you should.
Study those considered masters
and those masters ignored because they are
marginalized and oppressed.
Follow your highest muse at all times
and put your self-hatred to rest
- but do not for a moment put down your weapons;
your poems, your paints,
your spirit released
through your body in dance -
the fight for your unfettered self-expression
must be strategic,
your art too sacred to chance.

by Tiffany Osedra Miller

The Bishop of Sorrow and Pink



The Bishop of Sorrow
and Pink
his blood a mix of brown
and whte rum,
opium and delirium
his courtesans call him
stubborn when he
threatens to but does
not shoot himself with his
gun. A former soldier
infinite clown
man statue with soul
mummified in skin and
bone. Enslaved Saint
situated on Sad Street
clutching pink, his carnival
color, childhood fable, his
sweet story
sung in sermon.

Wednesday, June 10, 2009

We Stay Away From Tony

Friday, June 5, 2009

In The Other Neighborhood



If you wander into the other neighborhood
And you're asked to stay,
You mustn't leave
Get to know your neighbors;
They're not dead;
they just don't breathe.


by Tiffany Osedra Miller

I Need Love