Susan's "subject matter, context and medium...present a coherent artistic vision"
John Torreano, Clinical Professor of Studio Art, NYU

"Great stuff. Love your work."
Seymour Chwast

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Saturday, March 16, 2013

Boys Will Be Buoys

 OFT HAPPENS on the summer solstice
On the Isle of Moor,  just off Atlantis
 To cure the boys of colds and bronchitis
 Keeping them well so they can apprentice.

Captain Quack brews the boys blowfish tea
Prescribing sometimes as many as three
 Then sets sail with the lads, "Hard alee!"
(Just sayin,' seems suspicious to me.)

For blowfish puffs up inside your knee
You get laryngitis and top heavy
After the boys get their voices back
  Quack fixes them another snack.

He tells their mothers, "They're sick indeed"
They plead, "Return them!" Says he, "No need
Take head, my treatment is gratis
If you declare me loco parentis."

He knots anchors around the boy's necks
Blimey! Parents look like shipwrecks
As he tosses their children into the drink
All watch as down to the bottom they sink.

First rise the bubbles with a gushing noise
After that, the now buoyant boys
Ships tether to legs which look more like toys
No troubles, no poise, Quack's off to St. Croix's.

  Post Script

Boy ahoy! Boy ahoy!
Hope this tale won't kill your joy
Don't drink blowfish––it'll make you screwy
And if you're a boy, you'll turn into a buoy.

Friday, March 8, 2013

Poached Soul

The prettiest shells at the shore
Thought, "The sea won't miss those I adore
I need many more to sell in my store"
Poseidon roared, "Stop! I implore!"

'Twas written in nautical lore.

She used to make trinkets and rings galore
Sold  them recklessly; she wasn't poor
Got locked in a shell–spit up on the shore
For another collector to pick up off the floor.

'Twas written in nautical lore.

Laughing, she sticks her head out the conch
Upon her paunch she hides her tranche
Skin's the color of poached soul–or a blanch
For eternity she's lost her panache.

Probably end up as somebody's cache.

Tuesday, March 5, 2013

How The Mollusk Got Its Stripes

Rode on the beach calling, "Ta ta, ta ta"
Her prosaic pale-yellow mollusk carriage
'Twas a vehicle which I have to disparage.

Though powered  by zebra
Of stripes that would please ya
This lack-luster shell did not ring my bell
A visual fact that made La La unwell.

She stopped at El Mar
Where the azure spread far
To water her zebras
Dried out from their seizures.

A flock of magpies fond of her hat
Nested in there and that was that
One of them pecked at La La's cranium
Out came her brainium, hue of geranium.

It flowed down her arm right onto the mollusk
The stream was robust; she lamented, "Tsk, tusk"
Startled, the zebras reared up and down
 Imprinting stripes on the shell all around.

Now the ride of the Queen of Zebras
Outshines that of the Queen of Sheba's
La La's mind is now vacant; but I've no gripes–
Small price to pay for the mollusk's stripes.