Artists with Disabilities

The gift of memory and art,
The greatest gift to get.

Are you a Writer?

Would you like to choose one of my images and write something about it, or about how you feel, or think when you look at it? . . . or you might all ready have writen someth…

Tears, Pain, they are connected.

Heart, Pain, connected too!

Slipping in and out of the waking psyche,

Stealing into the dreaming mind.

Restless sleep when it comes,

Waking pai…

I 1st became a Member here on Redbubble in February 2008 but decided to delete my account and start again. I opened a new account using the name Photo57 2 weeks ago and couldn’t have wished fo…

Ha haaaaaaaaaaa…...............

OLD

..
NEW
!http://www.thaindian.com/newsportal/wp-content/uploads/2009/12/9da7…

How dare I
I who have nothing
Even to consider thinking
that I…me…who has nothing
a pauper compared to their royalty
I who doesn’t dress in the newest designer fashion
whose hair is …

For the 1st time since I came to Redbubble I have collaborated with a fellow redbubbler, "Linmarie":http://www.redbubble.com/people/linmarie

Her words and this image . . . I think they go so…

The Keeper
Hell
Heaven

A few of my photographs and a brilliant piece of music put together by yours truly. Not all images in this video have been submitted to redbubble . . . YET! . . . but, I am very happy to say t…

I want to be just like you…

I know I have succeeded at this after being accused of having an affair by a neighbor who simply read one of my pieces called “The French Waitress”

Burn your skin For my heart is cooked

If you are fair and just so be it.
If you are less than these; and taunt and tease.
You will pay a worthy price
I guarantee it.

If you are good and kind; be proud then.
If you fall far t…

Into the mountains they ran,
Leaving their village to burn.
Afraid to protect their own land,
And anything else they had earned.

Sit beside me, I will create
Aportrait of your face,
It’s beauty will emulate,
The memory of your grace.

Hands of an artist
Who sees through the mist
That nothing is created
By drawing a fist.

HIigh atop a mother rock
Looking in directions far away,
While overhead a phantom flock,
Search for their nights prey.

Alone sits the guitar waiting for it’s master to pick it up just one more time, the many intruments of joy that meant so much to a man who just wanted be.