Green Art News: Plastic

     My love affair with the ocean began as a  child on the beaches of Puntarenas, Costa Rica.  In 2004  I suffered head trauma that effects my short-term memory to this day, but I do remember riding horseback with my older cousins along the shore.   The sounds of hooves splashing in the water, along with waves crashing along the rocks, and the smell of  the ocean air were the things I looked forward to the most.  Playing in the sand, and bringing  home seashells that would become my most treasured toys as a young child.

     My father tall, and lean his eyes the lagoon blue of the ocean; would place conches against my small ear at bedtime so that I could hear the sounds I fell in love with. My father was an American, a POW from WWII, upon returning home to the states he traveled and spent much time in Central and South America.  He met my mother, a dark and exotic server at a local restaurant in Costa Rica and fell in love.  After they exchanged their vows, he spent the next five years in various locals in Costa Rica before returning with his wife and daughter to Southern California.  Where I was raised and my love for the ocean continued.  The beaches much more crowded than what I had been introduced to.  The feel of  crisp ocean air, and the warmth of the sun on my  skin were less frequent;  but nonetheless were what I looked forward to.

     Today those beaches in Puntarenas are a far cry from what I remember as a child.  The fishing industry and tourism has taken its toll.  I have included some informative material about the effects of plastic on  our coastline in Ecology of Marine Debris.  I also have included links to Artists who have devoted their work in the recycling of this debris in creating whimsical works of Art.

May peace and prosperity greet you at every corner.


Mount Boyd: Down the Rabbit Hole


The Day it Rained Cats and Dogs and a Volkswagon

forest bug

I was hiking up Mount Boyd and the forest was a neon green saturated, vivid not like the desert sand I walk my dog in.  The forest colors seemed wet and wild and if the leaves and blades of grass could sing the notes would carry me, but I didn’t want to be carried I wanted to feel the earth under my feet; feel the warmth of my muscle fibers…the friction.  The stretch of each step I welcomed with tears, not the same tears I shed trying to make it across a room.  No, these tears wet my face and I glowed because I could walk again.

There it was had it fallen from the skies above?  Parked there a freakish twisted rusting vision of metal, but nonetheless  a forest bug.  What story would it tell me had I thousand minutes to sit and listen enraptured by its haunting dialogue.


Reptilian Tile


Have you ever layed in bed for half a year?

My breaths are like ancient chants

they can lull the season to sleep 

or so I’m told

I burrow in my blankets

instinctual, habitual slumber

My caramel skin so very still 


 I listen to the  noise of children

at the schoolyard across the way,

that squeaky swing 

I thought would drive me mad any day.

One day I mailed the janitor a can of WD40 

and waited ever so patiently.

That squeaky swing must have nine-lives

for all the cans I’ve sent.

Days have come and gone

and the silence

reminds me of the time of year.

Summer and schools out and with it 

Silence of the squeaky swing

Along with the silence

an Imperial heat that

would bake me 

if I’d just fall asleep on the green grass

while tending my sheets.

I hang my sheets out to dry

I turn clockwise with my eyes to the sky

and gather my wrinkle-free sheets  before

they turn to dry-skin.

I make my bed

–stretched out so taut  

I fall into a soft faun colored ocean

the color of skin.  My skin.

My eyes flutter closed  and I dream 

of a zoo–of men 

all shapes and brilliant stripes, and colors

roaring behind the bars of iron

I tease them with a stick when no one looks

and immediately regret

my cheeks red with shame 

I wake up in rumpled sheets

I open my eyes, wide-wide

I take in the sunlight 

and I ball myself up 

in bed

my children have dubbed me 




Cheat Sheet Shows How to Size Images for Specific Social Media Uses

Cheat Sheet Shows How to Size Images for Specific Social Media Uses –

Perspective: Citylife



I live in the high desert which those who lack imagination may think it bland, but I’m attracted by the infinite variety that our Creator supplies in nature.  One of the things I sooo look forward to when I do visit the city is the infinite variety provided by mankind.  There really isn’t that much difference between the spikes one encounters in the desert and those encountered walking down a city street or is there?  Well I would say one is Divine and the other…complex.  It certainly helps me keeps things in perspective.




“Nuthatcher” Charcoal on vellum.  Artwork by Mary Lee Landaverde 2013


Forgetfulness is like a song

That, freed from beat and measure, wanders,

Forgetfulness is like a bird whose wings are reconciled,

Outspread and motionless, –

A bird that coasts the wind unwearyingly.

Forgetfulness is rain at night, 

Or an old house in a forest, – or a child.

forgetfulness is white, – white as a blasted tree,

And it may stun the sybil into prophecy,

Or bury the Gods.

I can remember much forgetfulness

             –HART CRANE



Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.

Join 552 other followers

%d bloggers like this: