Art Title: Gladys's Quiet Determination © Theresa RankinVisit her blog to see additional artwork.
And, her sites: HERE and HERE.
The artist lives in Carthage, Missouri, and specializes in oil paintings.
The subject matter is often unimportant...it is a subtle mixture of
mystery, longing, light, beauty and a bit of unreachability that
gives her the emotional reaction that in turn inspires her to paint.
And, her sites: HERE and HERE.
The artist lives in Carthage, Missouri, and specializes in oil paintings.
The subject matter is often unimportant...it is a subtle mixture of
mystery, longing, light, beauty and a bit of unreachability that
gives her the emotional reaction that in turn inspires her to paint.
Artwork used with permission from Theresa Rankin.
11 comments:
'I know I left him somewhere here. I can't believe that after 50 years of marriage he still goes AWOL.'
Greetings from London.
The old lady blooms
like her flowers as she walks
slowly through colors.
"I told you to watch out for the tiger pit trap."
What a beautiful painting and metaphor for faith and hope. The determination to keep gardening whether or not she lives to see it blossom for one more year. Because it is the gardening that gives her life meaning.
When in my garden, I'm at peace.
So if you need me, look for me in my garden.
Have a great weekend Nancy. (beautiful painting)
GRANNY'S BLOOMERS
You can always see Miz Gladys,
In her garden, at all hours,
She's out there pruning, feeding,
And watering her flowers.
Many times I've heard her murmuring,
To her brightly colored phlox,
And I've often seen her whispering,
To her mums and hollyhocks.
Folks say she gently talks,
To her glorious gladiolas,
And even has some special words,
For each variety of coleus.
I've been a little curious,
About the language that she's using
To have her plants so healthy,
And be blooming in profusion.
So I snuck into her garden,
Neath the floral canopies,
And was shocked hear her mutter,
"Get growing, you S.O.B.s"
Margaret looked down at Edward. The red stain that spread across the dry sandy earth reflected the glorious shade of the chrysanthemums that danced gently in the breeze. She gripped the rake tightly and waited for her breathing to steady.
"Well, that's that," she thought to herself as a sense of relief washed over her, and wondered now why it had taken her so long.
The open gate at the end of the path beckoned and she set off, still holding the rake, though no longer as a weapon, more now as a support for the coming journey. Life awaited her ...
She prowled the garden,
Which was always her habit,
In search of her nemesis:
That "wascally wabbit!"
I know I saw that little brat run over here with my false teeth
For her hope is her garden. She walks so ever slow. She knows each flower by name or she did this morning. In the afternoon her mind forgets and she can not recall one single name of all those flowers she has planted. How can this be? She then smiles for she has forgotten that she has forgot their names.. For her hope is her garden.
This is so beautiful, and so sad.
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