“Withing the Sword”

The sword
strong, brave, sharp
forged in blood ore
hard, volcanic slag
smelted, melted
molded in form
the sword
within the stone.



Stolen art journal…

This past weekend, I attended an event with my family. Somehow, my art journal/sketchbook sprouted legs and went home with someone else against it’s free will. It’s really sucky, because if the person who took the book had only asked, I would have given them any or all of the sketches there. I just can’t believe the disrespect… and this, out of those who say they are family. Sigh…just goes to show that the one people you should be able to trust, you can’t.

So, I’m without a sketchbook/art journal at the moment. Which also means that I have to sit out this week, and maybe next week’s art therapy sessions for which a sketchbook/art journal is a requirement for attendance. I really enjoy this group and find it immensely helpful. sigh… feeling really, seriously discouraged at the moment.

Weekend for remembering…

There is just something about the silence of dawn at the national cemetery. Those few hours before the public enters, when the fog is just starting to raise from the earth and the tips of the stones are just poking up within it. It’s a sight, a spirit that just can’t quite be described. I only regret that I had neither my camera or sketchbook with me to capture the moment. Words alone fail. We were there early to get ready for the service.

An hour later, I stood with my adopted daughter while she waited to stand up and speak about her dear Father. She clutched his flag to her chest as if by doing so, she could feel him with her again. When she stood up and walked forward to place her Father’s flag beside the POW-MIA memorial, it was all I could do not to completely lose it. Then she began to speak about her Father and the example of living that he taught her and her brother and I saw the wise and wonderful young lady and warrior that she has become. Her words were so very profound and touched the hearts of everyone there. I am so damn proud of her.

This is Grim…


This is Grim. Grim began his life with me as a lonely three leafed little breakoff out of a planter from my Mom’s funeral in 2012. I brought Grim home wrapped in a generic wet paper towel and then stuck him in a jar of water. He stayed there until one day I realized he’s sprouted a root. This root wound around the inside of the jar in a pretty little spiral. Then, after a few weeks of continually forgetting to water Grim, I invested in some of those expand ball things that hold water. It was hard to keep Grim’s “heads” above water, so to say. The balls were miraculous. Not only was my forgetfulness solved, but also Grim’s propensity for attempting suicide by drowning!

In honor of Valentine’s day 2013, I added a few drops of red food coloring to the water. The play of the green leaves against the red water and white root that still spiraled around the jar looked wild and crazy. Great! Then, I noticed one day that Grim had added another leaf to his stash…then a few months ago, I noticed another. I also noted that he’s added some more roots to his underwater entourage. Grim is thriving!

This year, I’m going to start replacing the waterballs with dirt…we’ll see how it goes.

Week #3- Feet painting progress

Week #3 – This week’s art therapy progress included deepening some of the colors, beginning to put in some background. My heart wants to sit down and crank this painting out…this waiting and only working for an hour or two a week is driving me nuts. Last week, I lost it and did some extra work, soooo this week, the therapist is keeping the painting until next week. So cruel!


Friday Fictioneers… The Memorial…

98 words. Thank you, Rochelle ( http://rochellewisofffields.wordpress.com/ ) for another excellent photo prompt! I hope you enjoy this week’s submission! More poetry than prose, but seriously deep.

Copyright -B. W. Beacham

Copyright -B. W. Beacham

Every year,
we come.
the scene the same.
we stare across to the white poles on the opposite shore.
Father would watch the execution ceremonies, watch the old ones die.
we stood and watched them led out, chained up, silent.
the scene the same.
Every year,
we come.

This year,
we come.
the scene the same.
we stare across to the people on the opposite shore.
You watch the execution ceremony, watch the old ones die.
we stand silent before we’re lead out, chained up.
the scene is the same.
This year,
we came.

Next year,
you come.

Art Therapy Painting progress…

This week, I’ve had a little extra time (That means that I got the butterflies beaded for my skirt! WooHoo!) and so as I sat of an evening I did a little more detail work on the feet. Watercolor is not really my specialty, so learning how to get the layers NOT to smear or blend when I don’t want them to is still a little frustrating. Fortunately, I was able to work through that issue and so here is what it looks like right now…


Art Therapy painting progress…

Week #1 – basic sketch, add a little base coloring

c. BS McQuinn, 2014

c. BS McQuinn, 2014

Week #2 – work on shading, defining

feet wk2


incestuous fork
around noodles
sauce’s ecstacy


“The Mask”

The Mask

This image of me you see
a woman of strength
of character and maturity
this woman, this image
it is not of me.
It is a mask
created in your mind
of what you think,
you hope,
you tolerate me to be.
The real me
you do not see
the real me cringes
in the face of responsibilities
the real me is afraid
in the face of reality
The real me is a coward
a shivering pacifist at heart.
I am not the mighty red warrior
your heart and mind
has painted my mask to be
I am not the sainted soldier
toughened, roughened
in the sands of mediocrity
I am merely what I am
I am what Creator made me to be…

I am ME!


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Lisa Jayne Irvine

Artist, Sculptor & Painter - whose curiosity inspires her process, work and life...

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Brotherly Love

A personal exploration of autism from a brother’s perspective, including family relationships, philosophy, neuroscience, mental health history and ethics