I have been away for months now. If one were to look at my post publishing history, a gap in time can be seen. From about May to this tail end of August. My silence was a result of an automatic self defense of mine, isolation. In short, I was dealing with schizophrenic hallucinations. I took that same strife to use as subject matter for my exploration of surrealism in poetry.

After these three poems I will specify what my hallucinations were because to do so now would reveal too much of the scaffolding of logic and end the dreamlike quality I am reaching for.

August Auger

Crank and bore,

all I’m good for

Winds whip the willow

Turning her leaves yellow



Hear the bark weep

As my tool squeaks

Its fatal sin was trust

Nothing more than shavings and dust



A hole, a mark, a scar

Sharing my pain

A gift of suffering

I should know better



Anger, derision, complacent

Familiar feeling swelling inside

When was the last time I cried

To oil my manual drill



Beware what you ask

You might get the answer.

Curiosity nibbling at my ribs

Devouring my sanity like a cancer.

Infested

Under the paper

Past red silk ribbons

Between the layers

unseen yet perceived



Unwanted guests

Within my hotel 

With no vacancies

Treating me like raw meat



They brought their families

Children yet to be

Empty pockets and no money

By my might, I evicted them



One by one with my fingernails

I dug into the walls

Without thinking of repairs

I was a wildfire focused to be a laser



Always looked down on them

Yet they reduced me to a beast

On my knees I looked into the water

Counting the ripples like rings in a tree



The stagnant pond swelled with my tears

Inky blotches of mud claimed the clear

I close my eyes and become one with silt

The poison to crystal water.



When I stopped thrashing

The sediment settled

The hungry muddy maw eased its jaw

Escaping back to reason



I live but the damage is done

My folly stares back at me

Through a scar and torn down walls

I feel the itch again

A Dark Room

The rat bastard inside me

Snatching my steak

Before it hits my stomach



All the taste

No sustenance.



I want the impossible

A middle finger in my throat

To wrap around the stowaway 

And floss my esophagus



Hold it up to my face

Scold them and their mother

Bet if I did, there’d be it’s twin

Slithering in my lightless room



Room for one more?

Squeeze in the cousins

Their children will follow

Now I’m grandma’s house?



No eyes on the inside

Torturous curiosity



Everyone says it’s in my head

I sigh, close my eyes, and forgive them all

They don’t endure the crawling

I hallucinated that I was infested with parasites under my skin. They came about my bed being infested with bed bugs. I was unsure of what was real and what was not. Then I picked at my face too much to the point of making an open wound the width of my thumb. I felt bugs laying eggs in my wound so I picked at my skin some more. The only remedy for these delusional acts was medicine, time, and vaseline. I am better now but felt too embarrassed to have any interactions with other people both on and off the internet.

Here I am now. Turning my faults and follies into art. To give a voice to the hurt and confusion inside.

Fire and Fate

Two shadows were walking on the glassy surface of the Mississippi River, one red and one black. They had one foot in death and the other in the living world. In the space betwixt, the shadows were able to walk on the water. Both appeared as solid color silhouettes. The red shadow was wine red…

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Feel free to leave comments if you can see this being part of a larger story. Or leave any comment really.

Let Me Rest

by Martin Embree

“Please don't let them take my soul,” begged the princess in that hoarse whisper that was all that she had left.

Halat would uphold the wish…

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When I was coming out of psychosis in 2022, I picked up the hobby of painting abstract. It was my way of taking action in response to my insomnia and akinesia. I couldn’t sleep. So I was recommended to have something to do at night quietly while I was awake and my family asleep.

I mentioned to my mother that maybe I would like to paint. The next day she bought me tables and an isle. My Aunt from another state ordered me paints to be delivered to me as well. I had all the supplies to start and reasons not to paint were shrinking into non-existence.

I figured I could do abstract paintings as I wouldn’t have to be a human copy machine and paint figures realistically. I thought at first, “This is going to be a cakewalk.” As I painted I discovered there is a respectable level of craftsmanship when it comes to painting abstract.

This painting I’m about to walk you through is one of great pride for me. I wanted to convey my heartbreak over leaving my fiancé seven years ago and the fact that she got into a relationship with another in less than a year. Heartache and a peaceful mind being marred by comparing myself to her.

Let me show you layer by layer how I reached that nearly impossible spot for an artist, “I’m done.”

First I squeezed my two colors onto the canvas and used a palette knife to spread the colors. I was sure to keep an even layer and let the colors mix in with each other.

On the top right corner, one can see an excess of teal from where I ended my palette knife spreading. I was too happy with this layer to spread the excess for a complete even layer. Then I figured it could work to add some texture to the piece.

This is just the background, the beginning. I had an idea of how I wanted to approach this painting in particular. I wanted my knives and brushes be intuitive. Not going in with a plan but to pay attention to where the art was leading me.

That was half of the technique I wanted to use. The other half was to take pictures of each layer and turn it monochrome to better see the values and where there needed to be balance.

Let’s have a look.

Same picture as before but I edited the saturation to be zero. Here I saw the right half had a lot of grayish white which I believe was balanced by the blacks on the right. So far so good.

I allowed myself to continue, once it had been a day or two to let it all dry. Perhaps it was staying wet longer due to them being more expensive paints. For sure, that top right corner needed the bulk of the time to dry those dunes of acrylics.

Using white and black paint, I made different shades of the two colors I chose. By restricting the palette to two colors, white and black don’t count, it would keep the work focused and less noisy to avoid becoming Pollock.

Here’s where my intuition and bold strokes lead me.

I used texture paste mixed with light teal, which I made from the original teal mixed with white. After slathering a few columns of the paste, I used the flat side of the palette knife by lightly pressing it into the paste and pulling away. This gave it, well, texture and something unique for the eyes to take in with out over doing it.

I got a lot of bright values down. Let’s try to balance it.

I restrained myself from overusing deep dark blacks yet it still didn’t feel balanced. So I added some dark values, just not as intense as straight up void-of-space blacks.

I started to have something here. A moment to carefully decide but still make creative choices that came from intuition. Impossible. I liked how the darker colors partially on the texture makes it look otherworldly flesh and veins. I also had a bird now in the center, more pronounced when desaturated.

To stop here would preserve the bird. In this style of abstract, preservation is not ensured but rebirth is abundant. At this point I had to walk away before making irrevocable strokes. Once returned I saw that the darkest value drew the eye more. It had to be balanced by making the brightest and darkest the smallest due to the weight they bring to the piece.

I decided to return to teal and brush on.

I lost the bird.

I found something new, the shape of teal on the left.

I squeezed the teal on the canvas along with a glob of white. Using a brush, I made a consistent motion just going right and then wet all the way to the left. It nearly represents a fan.

The vermillion from the background that was on the right, felt too bright and too dark. Using a slightly whitened teal, I made a tangle near the bottom right. Then added a strip of grey across the tangle to prep for the next layer to standout more.

I’ve been balancing the scales of lights and darks like a seesaw. Now I felt the lights and mids just write.

Nearing the end, I loaded my palette with the vermillion.

This layer specifically brought out more of the emo feeling I was going for. The title is a reference to a Linkin Park song. Loud, angry, and hurting. The hurting I felt being without my ex for over half a decade and still thinking about her.

I have arrived.

I was content. I gave a voice to all the heartbreak I had inside. Like reading a book to my inner child to ease them out of a tantrum. I had created something special and one of a kind. All without having to plan out and doubt myself. I worked with intuition and deft hands.

Another technique, you may have noticed, was to have my color shapes always be overlapped. I followed this throughout the process up until the last layer.

I believe it did its job.

There is an abundance of bright values. I believed the darkest values weigh more so I had less of them. Were the values truly balanced? Not really. It stopped mattering to me seeing it in color.

I already lost the bird. I couldn’t stand to lose the teal shape on the left. So deciding to stop here, felt easier to walk away now. At the time, I turned on some Linkin Park and listened to “One Step Closer.”

Thank you for joining me as I reminisced about one of my top five paintings of all time. Next, I want to research composition before picking up the brush or knife.

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by Martin Embree

These two works came from a visit to the D.C. botanical with my sister, brother-in-law, and two identical nephews. The pictures were taken by me inside the garden.

I was present with my family as we toured and I got some pics of a few flowers. Later that day in my down time I wrote poems inspired by them. I thought of taking morning walks while taking photos. Not a bad way to get inspiration.

I hope they are as enjoyable as they were when I penned them.

Pitcher Plant



Feel my draw hapless fly

As a gas giant pulls its moons


Closer closer into my pitcher

Filled with sweet sweet ichor 



Smell my honey nectar?

I’m so full I can’t help but to share.



Come have a sip of my tea

Sit on my lip, I promise you won’t slip.



Oh no! Did you fall, clumsy bug?

Down down my waxy throat

Into my acid belly below.

Forgive my lie hapless fly

I’m simply hungry

This betrayal won’t sting for long 

I’m Carnivorous without any teeth

A stomach in bloom

Why chew when you can devour?

Eat them whole, dissolve them slow.

Madagascar’s Palm


Stand tall succulent

Be fierce

Tower above your kin

Reach for the light

Open your arms to grace

Take it all in

Cast your shade



Bloom your white blossoms

Make them fierce

Damn those who dare ingest them

Let your toxins teach the lesson

Your very sap is poisonous

Be your own beauty

Lay your snare



Don your spiked armor

You are fierce

Every square inch has a spike

Pointing where others should go

Stab those who get too close

Trust in the ones bearing respect

You won’t be burned twice



We call you a palm

Even though it’s wrong

Who are we to disagree

With a thorny Goliath 

Standing sentinel in the sand

With thousands of swords drawn

And ready

A few slight horror themed poems.

Why?

Because they’re fun!

Enjoy.

Thank you for reading.

Western / Slice of Life

Hugh was wrapping a rock with yarn when a man was thrown out of the saloon. The man landed on his back in the dirt with a thud. By the stained clothes and disheveled hair, Hugh recognized him as Ol’ Cobb. Hugh didn’t know how he got by just as a hermit that only came in town for a drink. Nor did he know what on earth the man would have to do to get thrown out like he did.

Ol’ Cobb laid there basking in the rays of the sun as he caught the wind that was knocked out of him. The proprietor of the saloon stepped under the doorway and said, “I don’t want you stinking up my bar like the woodpussy you are with your crazy talk. Consider your debt absolved as long as you don’t come round here no more.” Then he threw out Cobb’s hat beside him where he lay.

With a groan Cobb crawled to his hat and said, “Why, yer the only place with a hard drink for miles. ‘Sides, they the ones askin me bout the angels.”

“I don’t want to hear it and I don’t care if you have to go on to Carson City, you’re not drinking in my establishment again.” With that, the proprietor disappeared back into his saloon.

Hugh had stopped making his ball for a game of Anthony-I-Over and just watched Ol’ Cobb get to his feet. He found it queer how Cobb was talking to himself. His parents told him he should steer clear of the man for he was known to be a crazed country hermit.

As Cobb dusted himself off he said, “They don’t hear ya but I do. I know y’all watching this here town. So get yer eyes off of me for a day will ya,” to himself.

Before getting to his scrawny horse, he spied Hugh staring at him. Cobb went quiet. His lips went tight yet they still moved all but imperceptibly. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a tiny thong bag then he walked over to Hugh.

Hugh’s eyes must have gone wide, because Cobb froze and held his hands up. He threw the bag to Hugh’s feet and said, “I reckon I won’t be back in this here town. Would you kindly empty that bag in a pile just as the sun’s risin’. Someone’s gotta hear the angels sing. Gotta know they—“

With a crack that echoed, dust kicked up behind Cobb and made them both jump. Cobb’s head snapped back to the saloon where the proprietor was holding a repeater. He said, “Don’t make me ask twice.”

“You lawless pig! Fine! I’m goin’!” Cobb went to his horse. As he trotted out of Genoa for the last time, he looked to Hugh and said, “Don’t open the bag before sunrise! Lest you want to hear devils for the rest of your life!”

Hugh picked up the small bag, weighed it in his hand, and wondered what could be inside. Whatever it was, it must be something special. Enough to make the angels sing at dawn’s first light on Genoa. Hugh’s mind went to gold. He fought the urge to open it up, remembering the words of Ol’ Cobb. From the feel of the bag, he figured it wasn’t a nugget or dust. Perhaps it was silver pebbles.

He pocketed the bag. Feeling light on his feet, he made for home like the air was carrying him. Forgetting the game of Anthony-I-Over. With a spark of wonder his imagination caught fire. He decided after hearing the angels on earth, he would use the gold or silver to buy out all the candy from the trading post and share it with all his friends. In fact, it was going to be a surprise!

That night, Hugh could hardly sleep. He’d never seen gold or silver before. All he knew is that they shined real nice in the light. He pictured the sun rising over the mountains across the basin and striking the gold. It would glitter so brilliantly angels would sing!

At some point Hugh closed his eyes and when he opened them again he stared at the window. It was just turning a dim blue outside. He sat up as if he were struck by lightning and hurried to put on his clothes.

Once outside he found a good view of the east that was close to home. He squatted down with the bag in hand and looked at the mountains. He could see a thin white yellow line crest the peaks. So he emptied the bag on the ground just before the Sun rose.

Hugh’s face fell. Seeds. That ol’ coot had him empty out a pile of seeds at dawn? Cobb really was not in his right mind. Hugh plopped onto his bottom and just stared at the mountains dejected.

The sun began to reach above the peaks. Then he did hear something. It wasn’t angels but birds. He looked back at the pile of seeds, then back up to the sky. The world was waking around him. First there was silence. Now there were birds.

Hugh figured birds will have to be angels enough. Both had wings. He guessed it would be some time before he’d find out if the angels sing in heaven.

Heaven will have to wait. Til then, Genoa at dawn was good enough.