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M.M. Panas and JoAnn Moore

MM Panas R

M.M. Panas
Second Chance

Mixed media on paper, 18 x 31.5 inches
Created using JoAnn Moore’s poem (below) as inspiration

Ode to Love
By JoAnn Moore

I believe every one has a soul
mate, with an odd
number of people in the world.

I believe that when you startle
awake in the night,
a star’s shine has run out.

I believe hearts do not break
but whither, from lost faith.

I believe God no longer
wants to be involved.

I believe we are happier
when we remember
to wonder like children.

I believe instead of failing
we wear kindness
as a disguise.

I believe nothing
is lonelier than fear
or simpler than love.

I believe pain reminds us
to feel.

I believe I have seen
your true color and it is
in darkness.

I believe in fate
and karma and
second chances.

I believe the answer is found
in the softness
of a kiss.

I believe the dead
come back to us
as blades of grass

or grains of sand
or fallen petals

softening our steps onward.

——————————————————-

MM Panas I

MM Panas
Brooklyn Redux

Mixed media, 22.5 x 16 inches
Inspiration piece provided to JoAnn Moore

Collage
By JoAnn Moore

The front door catches on the tatami mat as you try to close it; antiques mingle with the overstuffed as plush wraps offer warmth within arm’s reach— a fireplace, too; original artwork welcomes each wall, one mauve sofa pillow’s askew, vases of glass and clay marbles echo the room’s colors; a wind chime sways between the living room and study; one empty sake bottle, a candleless angel and her three silver framed charges, glued puzzles as doilies: Wright, Tiffany, Pollack; cat toys huddle in the secretary corner; alphabetized movies, cds, unread magazines; a handmade life mask detailed with seaside stroll remnants floats on driftwood alone on the hope chest; pictures grace each surface in black frames— everywhere: dust, dog hair, books stacked like poetic end tables; the made bed, a color ordered wardrobe, bracelets in a line atop the bureau tray; earrings —all paired— hang; an old dog collar drapes his portrait on the desk; unpaid bills pile, the laptop open, asleep; the towels all hung, the lid up, one bathmat scrunched, the night’s pills and herbs teeter on the wainscoting’s top edge while the kitchen opens to southern exposures, sun loving succulents, hibiscus and a ceiling reaching ivy; two counter top cat dishes, Vermont license plate, dog food bag, food splattered dish and a four quart water bowl almost empty; refrigerator keepsakes: postcards, more recent photos, grand opening theatre stub, horoscopes, love comics, travel magnets, December 18 @ 4 p.m.— Dr. Barsanti and make hair appointment! reminders; a handwritten note: nothing ever becomes real until it is experienced; car keys on the island, unopened mail, sink empty, a bottle of Redwood Coast Cabernet recorked, the throw rugs bunched, a full tea kettle, hints of cinnamon, honeydew, vanilla; the back slider slightly ajar.

——————————————————-

Note: All of the art and writing on this site belongs to the person who created it. Copying or republishing anything you see here without express and written permission from the author or artist is strictly prohibited.

Collage

By JoAnn Moore

The front door catches on the tatami mat as you try to close
it; antiques mingle with the overstuffed as plush wraps
offer warmth within arm’s reach— a fireplace, too;
original artwork welcomes each wall, one mauve sofa
pillow’s askew, vases of glass and clay marbles echo the
room’s colors; a wind chime sways between the living
room and study; one empty sake bottle, a candleless angel
and her three silver framed charges, glued puzzles as
doilies: Wright, Tiffany, Pollack; cat toys huddle in the
secretary corner; alphabetized movies, cds, unread
magazines; a handmade life mask detailed with seaside
stroll remnants floats on driftwood alone on the hope
chest; pictures grace each surface in black frames—
everywhere: dust, dog hair, books stacked like poetic end
tables; the made bed, a color ordered wardrobe, bracelets
in a line atop the bureau tray; earrings —all paired— hang;
an old dog collar drapes his portrait on the desk; unpaid
bills pile, the laptop open, asleep; the towels all hung, the
lid up, one bathmat scrunched, the night’s pills and herbs
teeter on the wainscoting’s top edge while the kitchen
opens to southern exposures, sun loving succulents,
hibiscus and a ceiling reaching ivy; two counter top cat
dishes, Vermont license plate, dog food bag, food
splattered dish and a four quart water bowl almost empty;
refrigerator keepsakes: postcards, more recent photos,
grand opening theatre stub, horoscopes, love comics, travel
magnets, December 18 @ 4 p.m.— Dr. Barsanti and make
hair appointment! reminders; a handwritten note: nothing
ever becomes real until it is experienced;
car keys on the
island, unopened mail, sink empty, a bottle of Redwood
Coast Cabernet recorked, the throw rugs bunched, a full
tea kettle, hints of cinnamon, honeydew, vanilla; the back
slider slightly ajar.

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