Mr. Fluffy

Playing around with new iPad apps. Mr. fluffy…. I would draw him on many things since sixth grade (now I’m 42).


Here I go again on my own as if a white snake could exist but did in an era where people seemed free. Or, were we just in a dream, dream, dream… Because there’s a fire burning in my heart where the scars remind they almost had it all before Shirley Temple died and pink transience swam around mini icebergs with a slippy slide.

Again the phone rings with demands from another day but the same, as if nothing really changed. Win the lottery-it’s in fashion! Sensible shoes, trained handlers, a little bling never hurt no one. “Get a whiff of THIS you (bleeeeep)!” He would probably say.

in the end with all our guns and all our rotted roses we are still knock knock knocking on heavens door. She tried but Rapture took over by Blondie and mr. west was in the building. She saw Red but she was Making Love in Mamma’s room too late 20 seconds from mars. It was her party but she couldn’t find him in da club drankin a bottle full of bub, or so instead she gave HIM a hug to Buffets demise. Is this making sense yet?    Good.

In the beginning…



What do we do when our cameras break?
The words we create no longer take a visual stake.

Unfortunate inability to capture what’s seen, it is sad
We take up out roots-our calling is calling “pencil” and “pad.”

With broken hearts and broken camera parts
We discover something long ago lost- our true hearts.

There on the reprocessed tree slow-quick lines appear to thee
Peer, pear, appear, erase, smudge, disappear-push that pencil, just “be.”

The art-ache illness in our hearts started that famished lead to dusty paper
Whether heart hides in pictures, sculpture, words or blogs- it is our maker.

We share for reasons the “normal” don’t, refuse to and will never fathom
For people like us, we’re lettered sad, self centered, “different” or maddened.

Addiction, release, second nature it may be, or our outlet to bleed
Fellow artists, writers, bloggers… Do not EVER stop giving into that need.

(Many blessings, love to you. May your blogs, hands and hearts always be full.) ~poetry and artwork copyrighted©2014TrishaLDunn.

Lost but found in a sea of rolling thunder
So dark
So light
In a space
between time
and space
Her ship sailed
blown by dirty earthworms breath
Governed by
Wrecked, torn
The ship no more
Landed on alien shore
She walked… fast
Leaving behind the broken mast

Fruitless lies the trash of the resolute per annual.

Wind blows the drippy promise, away. Away.

Let it be carried by the invisible.


Did you think it was yours to carry?

Tired, so freakin’ tired of the same crap different day.

Sure, you’ll change; but only when I change.

Don’t live in the past he says. Then he brings up an hour ago.

WTF? is my latest brain  zap, Saying as Rain Man did but in my head repeatedly

Counseling, “yes” then “no” he says.

Trying to get out of it he says, “remember b4 when we went? they r going say u have a problem!”

“Me? Have a problem?” Great! Bring the new problem on I say! My problem isn’t m


e dummy. It’s you…

You’re something I can’t cure, or self-help but inflicted through another read book.

You’re something alright, just the wrong kind of something.

And, you’re literally KILLING me….


Life is messy so clean it up!.