Visionary Abstract Artist


  Poetry by Jeanmarie Conlon
  Flames the house was on fire
like a pilar of wood up on wooded land
piled straight up
the red house now was standing all engulfed in flames
and I was a witness to myself
I walked through the fire each piece of wood straight up
around moving through and around I was led
in and out passing through and within
where I felt the heat of the wood and the embers
Each room in the fire was a memory
a reminder of some one's violence that unleashed
one night could not be erased yet my mission was clear
as the stilness moved an echo in my memory
yet I walked through knowing
I had no choice and I was protected
I knew I had to enter remembering the way
I was the bearer of the light and forgiving
Rooted strongly I turned inward and empty lost all possessions
I am in the white stillness blue of the deep winter.
  Visions Falling
There is no way out
except through these visions.
They have entwined me
since I was young.
Something stirred me to answer the call
I see long skinny saplings growing out of the ice
in the free frozen streams.
I see the pond I skated on.
I see the cemetery
where sixteenth century stones lie.
I would crawl over the high wall
and sit for hours inside
I plunge down the well
deep into the earth,
rocks falling around me
my fingers reaching for something to hold.
My child lies at the bottom.
I hold her in my arms.
My body like a soft blanket made from lambs
protects her.
  An Angel of Peace and Forgiveness
  An angel of peace and forgiveness
An angel came through the curtains as I was sleeping
and I felt a presence
as if one of my children had wakened from sleep
and crawled in bed with me.
I was still and the wind whispered forgive
for I am an angel of peace and forgiveness
and your mission is to walk with me
through these gates of the unknown.
So i lay there knowing something bigger than the sky had whispered
and I held my new companion
like my child whose dream was now my dream.
  to Vanessa


Tall trees stand like giant brown anchors,
their hooks buried in the snow-covered earth.
Soft whispering lilac snow petals drift openly
from heaven, peacefully dancing like ballerinas
through the ocean's windy atmosphere, going
this way and that way.
Remembering the moment
and in quiet solitude,
I stand naked inside
the winter's eve.


  a Haiku by Jeanmarie Conlon

If all we are is dust in the wind
then we need to be light like fireflies
and use our light well

  The Dove 's Calling
(poetry by Jeanmarie Conlon;
read by Johnes Ruta, in honor of Jeanmarie,
atop West Rock, New Haven; noon, a suuny day,
October 7, 2015, on the first anniversary of her passing)

I awoke to a strong calling this morning
as I arrived to a clearing in the woods.
Rain running across the water
and showers of rain swiftly parting in the sky,
tall trees standing upright on the banks of the river.
Wishing I was one of those trees
scattered , yet each one
peacefully rooted in the earth, planted
in a labyrinth of sacredness.
The rain poured so hard.
Out and up across the sky came a white Dove
I recognized the white wings,
the movement, and bowed my head
in thankfulness.
The water moved with the wind,
and the wind moved in the air,
weaving within the white dove.

  Must I forgive? asks the child.
Forgive, says the mother,
for in forgiving we wipe each other's tears
fallen like the rain upon the earth.
Our tears go back to the earth's universall mother
who silently gathers all the tears born from forgiveness
into your own child's dreams,
whose dreams are stars that become shells upon the shore
and the sand meets the sea forevermore.
As the milk weed in the meadow blows the wish in the air
forgiveness gives birth to peace.
Must I forgive? asks the child.
Forgive, says the mother.

Innocent like white snow upon my window,
morning doves singing in the meadows,
you walked into my room and it
was as if your sensitivity lightened the room.
And where silence fell still,
a reminder of our gentleness as human beings
from a long time ago.
I wrapped my arms around you
with my paints.
Safeness of soul now opened
unto the spring air and free with possibilities.
while the rain fell upon my garden.
Carson, Carson,
gentle like Guinavere.
You were wounded in side your shell ,
until you felt safe to come out.
  Jenny's Garden
  The garden wrapped itself around the house,
a white moon in the sky.
I always remember Jenny
carrying a special secret inside.
She was the only woman
who talked with her eyes
and returned to the beauty of her backyard.
I always wondered what magic did she know.
It was the garden that grew inside of her
Huge crimson hyacinths dancing,
and charming yellow sunflowers waving to me,
and lavender flowers
that smelled like some field in France,
and those red juicy tomatoes bigger than my thighs,
sweetest fruit ever,
waking me up to myself,
as I rode my bike down the street in that peaceful summer
quieter than a desert.
I tucked this all away into the pocket of my apron
like a letter waiting to be read
over and over again.


  In the distance I was standing in the heat of the summer
remembering playing games
with my friend's sister, making her laugh.
Always entering her bedroom quietly
knowing that she was never going to leave that bed.
She knew that, too.
My friend and I, we brought the backyard
into her bedroom, and filled it with our play.
For deep down we both knew something,
yet only the moment absorbed.
It was such a still hot day.
I pounded out the screen door onto the road.
We had no sidewalks or curbs.
I stopped at the edge of the front lawn.
There was a black car in my friend's driveway.
where his sister now lifeless
lay like a bird
that had fallen dead on the ground.
The car drove by with the sleeping girl
who was never to awake again
to the sound of our childish laughter in that same room.
I looked at the empty window of her bedroom.
And now I could see from the corner of my eye
Out on the horizon
she was playing somewhere way far out in the distance,
In another land where we could not go
for now.
Copyright c 2011 by Jeanmarie Conlon
All Rights Reserved