#symbolicart — Public Fediverse posts

A Stranger in the House

In my dreams, I shout.

The words fall from my mouth and wake me in the moment of the last word.

In times of terror, when I sleep, my tongue becomes thick. The words have difficulty forming. They struggle to be released, as if they must pass through mud, or blood, or memory. Then I awake with the last words still on my lips, wondering who I was around the table with the others, and why I was so distressed.

In the morning, my lover tells me she heard my voice shouting.

She says it did not sound like me.

I was another man.

A stranger in the house.

And I am left waking from a dream I can barely remember, wondering at its origin, curious as to why it came, even though I know its meaning may elude me like all troubling dreams: present in the body, lost in the waking.

So often it has been anger that has driven my voice.

Anger against perceived injustice.

Anger sharpened by fear.

Anger standing in for courage.

Anger disguising grief.

Anger becoming the only language loud enough to make me feel as if I am doing something, saying something, resisting something. And perhaps, at times, anger has been a necessary alarm. Perhaps it has awakened me when numbness would have been easier. Perhaps it has named what politeness wanted buried.

But anger is a hard voice to live inside.

It burns the throat that carries it.

It can become another form of captivity, another stranger in the house, pacing the rooms, turning over tables, shouting at shadows long after the danger has passed.

And so I wonder whether the dream is not only about terror.

Maybe it is about voice.

Maybe somewhere beneath the shouting, there is another sound trying to be born.

Not the voice that must win.

Not the voice that must accuse.

Not the voice that must prove itself righteous by the force of its volume.

But a different voice.

A voice formed not by fear but by love.

A voice that can still name injustice without becoming consumed by it.

A voice that can grieve without needing to destroy.

A voice that can speak truth without losing tenderness.

A voice that can say, “This is wrong,” and still remain human.

Maybe the stranger in the house is not only the angry man I fear becoming.

Maybe he is also the hidden self who has never learned another way to speak.

Maybe he shouts because he does not yet know how to weep.

Maybe he rages because he has not yet trusted that sorrow can also be strong.

Maybe he wakes me because he wants to be changed, not silenced.

There is a stranger in me who has not yet been welcomed.

There is a voice in me that only finds release when I am no longer guarding the door.

And when I wake with the last word on my lips, frightened by the sound of myself, perhaps I am not merely waking from the dream.

Perhaps I am waking into it.

Perhaps I am being invited to discover a different voice:

not less truthful,

not less passionate,

not less awake to suffering,

but less afraid.

A voice no longer thickened by terror.

A voice no longer driven only by anger.

A voice that rises from somewhere deeper than outrage.

A voice that has passed through the fire and learned, at last, to bless.

The Sabbath Sabotage

They told us
holiness was neat,
pressed flat like Sunday clothes,
folded into bulletins,
spoken in indoor voices,
kept safely between hymns
and handshakes.

They told us
Sabbath was a soft thing,
a nap for the soul,
a gentle pause
before returning
to the holy machinery
of earning, buying, proving, becoming.

But Sabbath was never safe.

Sabbath is a wrench
thrown into Pharaoh’s gears.
A door barred against the market.
A candle lit
in defiance of the floodlights.
A refusal
to kneel before the stopwatch.
A holy no
rising like thunder
from tired bones.

Six days, they say,
you shall labor.
And the seventh?
The seventh is mutiny.

The seventh day
the fields are not your masters.
The ledgers do not own your name.
The inbox may howl
like a beast outside the gate,
but you will not feed it.
The empire counts bricks.
Sabbath counts blessings.
The empire demands output.
Sabbath gathers manna
and says, enough.

Enough for today.
Enough for this body.
Enough for this earth.
Enough for a life
that was never meant
to be fed into furnaces
just to keep the towers warm.

Sabbath is not laziness.
It is revolt
with bread on the table.
It is trust
with dirt under the fingernails.
It is the slave
remembering he is human.
The widow
remembering she is seen.
The ox
remembering grass.
The land
remembering how to breathe.

And maybe that is why
they sabotage Sabbath.

Because rest breaks rank.
Because silence interrupts slogans.
Because delight cannot be monetized forever.
Because a people
who learn to stop
may also learn
they can refuse.

Refuse the lie
that worth is measured in production.
Refuse the sermon
of profit without mercy.
Refuse the fear
that if we cease for one day
the world will fall apart—
as though we were the ones
holding up the stars.

No.
Sabbath is the admission
that we are not God,
and the miracle
that God is still good.

So let the engines choke.
Let the schedules stutter.
Let the tyrants call it weakness.
Let the anxious call it waste.
Let the merchants stand bewildered
before shuttered stalls
and unhurried hearts.

For this is the sabotage:
to rest in a restless world,
to feast in a famine of joy,
to loosen your fist
when all of history
has trained it to clench.

To stop.
To breathe.
To bless.
To remember
that we were not made
for endless extraction,
but for communion—
with God,
with neighbor,
with creature,
with soil,
with our own forgotten souls.

And so, on the seventh day,
we commit our small rebellion:
we light candles against consumption,
set tables against despair,
sing psalms against the grind,
and call this shattered life
still sacred.

This is no small thing.
This is how the kingdom enters:
not always with trumpets,
but with napping children,
unbought hours,
shared bread,
and a people audacious enough
to believe
that the world can turn
without their frantic striving.

Blessed are the saboteurs of empire.
Blessed are the keepers of Sabbath.
Blessed are the tired
who lay their burden down
and find, beneath the weight of all they carried,
a joy the masters could not confiscate.

For every Sabbath kept
is a crack in the idol.
Every prayer whispered at rest
is a seed beneath the pavement.
Every holy pause
is a hammer blow
against the myth
that Caesar owns time.

He does not.
The clock does not.
The market does not.

Time belongs to God.
And God,
in mercy,
has given some of it back to us.

The Sabbath Sabotage

They told us
holiness was neat,
pressed flat like Sunday clothes,
folded into bulletins,
spoken in indoor voices,
kept safely between hymns
and handshakes.

They told us
Sabbath was a soft thing,
a nap for the soul,
a gentle pause
before returning
to the holy machinery
of earning, buying, proving, becoming.

But Sabbath was never safe.

Sabbath is a wrench
thrown into Pharaoh’s gears.
A door barred against the market.
A candle lit
in defiance of the floodlights.
A refusal
to kneel before the stopwatch.
A holy no
rising like thunder
from tired bones.

Six days, they say,
you shall labor.
And the seventh?
The seventh is mutiny.

The seventh day
the fields are not your masters.
The ledgers do not own your name.
The inbox may howl
like a beast outside the gate,
but you will not feed it.
The empire counts bricks.
Sabbath counts blessings.
The empire demands output.
Sabbath gathers manna
and says, enough.

Enough for today.
Enough for this body.
Enough for this earth.
Enough for a life
that was never meant
to be fed into furnaces
just to keep the towers warm.

Sabbath is not laziness.
It is revolt
with bread on the table.
It is trust
with dirt under the fingernails.
It is the slave
remembering he is human.
The widow
remembering she is seen.
The ox
remembering grass.
The land
remembering how to breathe.

And maybe that is why
they sabotage Sabbath.

Because rest breaks rank.
Because silence interrupts slogans.
Because delight cannot be monetized forever.
Because a people
who learn to stop
may also learn
they can refuse.

Refuse the lie
that worth is measured in production.
Refuse the sermon
of profit without mercy.
Refuse the fear
that if we cease for one day
the world will fall apart—
as though we were the ones
holding up the stars.

No.
Sabbath is the admission
that we are not God,
and the miracle
that God is still good.

So let the engines choke.
Let the schedules stutter.
Let the tyrants call it weakness.
Let the anxious call it waste.
Let the merchants stand bewildered
before shuttered stalls
and unhurried hearts.

For this is the sabotage:
to rest in a restless world,
to feast in a famine of joy,
to loosen your fist
when all of history
has trained it to clench.

To stop.
To breathe.
To bless.
To remember
that we were not made
for endless extraction,
but for communion—
with God,
with neighbor,
with creature,
with soil,
with our own forgotten souls.

And so, on the seventh day,
we commit our small rebellion:
we light candles against consumption,
set tables against despair,
sing psalms against the grind,
and call this shattered life
still sacred.

This is no small thing.
This is how the kingdom enters:
not always with trumpets,
but with napping children,
unbought hours,
shared bread,
and a people audacious enough
to believe
that the world can turn
without their frantic striving.

Blessed are the saboteurs of empire.
Blessed are the keepers of Sabbath.
Blessed are the tired
who lay their burden down
and find, beneath the weight of all they carried,
a joy the masters could not confiscate.

For every Sabbath kept
is a crack in the idol.
Every prayer whispered at rest
is a seed beneath the pavement.
Every holy pause
is a hammer blow
against the myth
that Caesar owns time.

He does not.
The clock does not.
The market does not.

Time belongs to God.
And God,
in mercy,
has given some of it back to us.

The Sabbath Sabotage

They told us
holiness was neat,
pressed flat like Sunday clothes,
folded into bulletins,
spoken in indoor voices,
kept safely between hymns
and handshakes.

They told us
Sabbath was a soft thing,
a nap for the soul,
a gentle pause
before returning
to the holy machinery
of earning, buying, proving, becoming.

But Sabbath was never safe.

Sabbath is a wrench
thrown into Pharaoh’s gears.
A door barred against the market.
A candle lit
in defiance of the floodlights.
A refusal
to kneel before the stopwatch.
A holy no
rising like thunder
from tired bones.

Six days, they say,
you shall labor.
And the seventh?
The seventh is mutiny.

The seventh day
the fields are not your masters.
The ledgers do not own your name.
The inbox may howl
like a beast outside the gate,
but you will not feed it.
The empire counts bricks.
Sabbath counts blessings.
The empire demands output.
Sabbath gathers manna
and says, enough.

Enough for today.
Enough for this body.
Enough for this earth.
Enough for a life
that was never meant
to be fed into furnaces
just to keep the towers warm.

Sabbath is not laziness.
It is revolt
with bread on the table.
It is trust
with dirt under the fingernails.
It is the slave
remembering he is human.
The widow
remembering she is seen.
The ox
remembering grass.
The land
remembering how to breathe.

And maybe that is why
they sabotage Sabbath.

Because rest breaks rank.
Because silence interrupts slogans.
Because delight cannot be monetized forever.
Because a people
who learn to stop
may also learn
they can refuse.

Refuse the lie
that worth is measured in production.
Refuse the sermon
of profit without mercy.
Refuse the fear
that if we cease for one day
the world will fall apart—
as though we were the ones
holding up the stars.

No.
Sabbath is the admission
that we are not God,
and the miracle
that God is still good.

So let the engines choke.
Let the schedules stutter.
Let the tyrants call it weakness.
Let the anxious call it waste.
Let the merchants stand bewildered
before shuttered stalls
and unhurried hearts.

For this is the sabotage:
to rest in a restless world,
to feast in a famine of joy,
to loosen your fist
when all of history
has trained it to clench.

To stop.
To breathe.
To bless.
To remember
that we were not made
for endless extraction,
but for communion—
with God,
with neighbor,
with creature,
with soil,
with our own forgotten souls.

And so, on the seventh day,
we commit our small rebellion:
we light candles against consumption,
set tables against despair,
sing psalms against the grind,
and call this shattered life
still sacred.

This is no small thing.
This is how the kingdom enters:
not always with trumpets,
but with napping children,
unbought hours,
shared bread,
and a people audacious enough
to believe
that the world can turn
without their frantic striving.

Blessed are the saboteurs of empire.
Blessed are the keepers of Sabbath.
Blessed are the tired
who lay their burden down
and find, beneath the weight of all they carried,
a joy the masters could not confiscate.

For every Sabbath kept
is a crack in the idol.
Every prayer whispered at rest
is a seed beneath the pavement.
Every holy pause
is a hammer blow
against the myth
that Caesar owns time.

He does not.
The clock does not.
The market does not.

Time belongs to God.
And God,
in mercy,
has given some of it back to us.

The Sabbath Sabotage

They told us
holiness was neat,
pressed flat like Sunday clothes,
folded into bulletins,
spoken in indoor voices,
kept safely between hymns
and handshakes.

They told us
Sabbath was a soft thing,
a nap for the soul,
a gentle pause
before returning
to the holy machinery
of earning, buying, proving, becoming.

But Sabbath was never safe.

Sabbath is a wrench
thrown into Pharaoh’s gears.
A door barred against the market.
A candle lit
in defiance of the floodlights.
A refusal
to kneel before the stopwatch.
A holy no
rising like thunder
from tired bones.

Six days, they say,
you shall labor.
And the seventh?
The seventh is mutiny.

The seventh day
the fields are not your masters.
The ledgers do not own your name.
The inbox may howl
like a beast outside the gate,
but you will not feed it.
The empire counts bricks.
Sabbath counts blessings.
The empire demands output.
Sabbath gathers manna
and says, enough.

Enough for today.
Enough for this body.
Enough for this earth.
Enough for a life
that was never meant
to be fed into furnaces
just to keep the towers warm.

Sabbath is not laziness.
It is revolt
with bread on the table.
It is trust
with dirt under the fingernails.
It is the slave
remembering he is human.
The widow
remembering she is seen.
The ox
remembering grass.
The land
remembering how to breathe.

And maybe that is why
they sabotage Sabbath.

Because rest breaks rank.
Because silence interrupts slogans.
Because delight cannot be monetized forever.
Because a people
who learn to stop
may also learn
they can refuse.

Refuse the lie
that worth is measured in production.
Refuse the sermon
of profit without mercy.
Refuse the fear
that if we cease for one day
the world will fall apart—
as though we were the ones
holding up the stars.

No.
Sabbath is the admission
that we are not God,
and the miracle
that God is still good.

So let the engines choke.
Let the schedules stutter.
Let the tyrants call it weakness.
Let the anxious call it waste.
Let the merchants stand bewildered
before shuttered stalls
and unhurried hearts.

For this is the sabotage:
to rest in a restless world,
to feast in a famine of joy,
to loosen your fist
when all of history
has trained it to clench.

To stop.
To breathe.
To bless.
To remember
that we were not made
for endless extraction,
but for communion—
with God,
with neighbor,
with creature,
with soil,
with our own forgotten souls.

And so, on the seventh day,
we commit our small rebellion:
we light candles against consumption,
set tables against despair,
sing psalms against the grind,
and call this shattered life
still sacred.

This is no small thing.
This is how the kingdom enters:
not always with trumpets,
but with napping children,
unbought hours,
shared bread,
and a people audacious enough
to believe
that the world can turn
without their frantic striving.

Blessed are the saboteurs of empire.
Blessed are the keepers of Sabbath.
Blessed are the tired
who lay their burden down
and find, beneath the weight of all they carried,
a joy the masters could not confiscate.

For every Sabbath kept
is a crack in the idol.
Every prayer whispered at rest
is a seed beneath the pavement.
Every holy pause
is a hammer blow
against the myth
that Caesar owns time.

He does not.
The clock does not.
The market does not.

Time belongs to God.
And God,
in mercy,
has given some of it back to us.

Dialogue: The Unarmed Prophet and the Armed World

A conversation between Girolamo Savonarola and Niccolò Machiavelli

Florence. Night. The Piazza della Signoria is empty, though the stones still remember fire. The ghost of Girolamo Savonarola stands near the place where he was hanged and burned. Niccolò Machiavelli enters, older now, carrying a manuscript beneath his arm.

SAVONAROLA:
You return to the place of ashes, Messer Niccolò.

MACHIAVELLI:
Florence has many places of ashes, Fra Girolamo. Yours is only the most famous.

SAVONAROLA:
And you have made use of it.

MACHIAVELLI:
I made use of what happened. That is not the same as rejoicing in it.

SAVONAROLA:
You wrote that I was ruined because I was unarmed.

MACHIAVELLI:
Were you not?

SAVONAROLA:
I preached repentance. I called a city to righteousness. I turned hearts toward God.

MACHIAVELLI:
For a time.

SAVONAROLA:
Truth is not false because men grow tired of it.

Read the full Dialogue at PeaceGrooves.

Upon the Absent Beloved

I bless the hour, though it wounded me,
when first my eyes were taught to look and grieve,
and every joy I thought my heart could weave
was turned to golden thread of misery.

For Beauty came, and with her majesty
made captive all I had believed was free;
yet in that chain my soul learned how to see
the heaven hidden in captivity.

O gentle light, too distant to be mine,
you burn within me like a sacred flame;
I flee from you, yet follow all the same.

Thus love makes bitter water into wine:
I die of longing, yet I live by this—
the wound itself has taught my heart its bliss.

Author’s Note: My attempts at a poem in the style of Petrarch

ALBANIA. COAT OF ARMS OF ALBANIA. SAMER BRASIL
https://www.teepublic.com/t-shirt/38603843-albania-coat-of-arms-of-albania-samer-brasil?store_id=310823

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ALBANIA. COAT OF ARMS OF ALBANIA. SAMER BRASIL
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#samerbrasil #ia #food #woman #womens
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#MinimalistDesign
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#BlackAndWhiteStyle
#UrbanLook
#GraphicTee
#FashionTrend
#ViralStyle

ALBANIA. COAT OF ARMS OF ALBANIA. SAMER BRASIL
https://www.teepublic.com/t-shirt/38603843-albania-coat-of-arms-of-albania-samer-brasil?store_id=310823

#samerbrasil #ia #food #woman #womens
#DoubleHeadedEagle
#AlbanianStyle
#StreetwearFashion
#MinimalistDesign
#SymbolicArt
#BlackAndWhiteStyle
#UrbanLook
#GraphicTee
#FashionTrend
#ViralStyle

ALBANIA. COAT OF ARMS OF ALBANIA. SAMER BRASIL
https://www.teepublic.com/t-shirt/38603843-albania-coat-of-arms-of-albania-samer-brasil?store_id=310823

#samerbrasil #ia #food #woman #womens
#DoubleHeadedEagle
#AlbanianStyle
#StreetwearFashion
#MinimalistDesign
#SymbolicArt
#BlackAndWhiteStyle
#UrbanLook
#GraphicTee
#FashionTrend
#ViralStyle

ALBANIA. COAT OF ARMS OF ALBANIA. SAMER BRASIL
https://www.teepublic.com/t-shirt/38603843-albania-coat-of-arms-of-albania-samer-brasil?store_id=310823

#samerbrasil #ia #food #woman #womens
#DoubleHeadedEagle
#AlbanianStyle
#StreetwearFashion
#MinimalistDesign
#SymbolicArt
#BlackAndWhiteStyle
#UrbanLook
#GraphicTee
#FashionTrend
#ViralStyle

Nocturne on the Shore.
#ArtDigital #SurrealArt #Dreamscape #CinematicMood #SymbolicArt #VisualPoetry #AtmosphericArt #AI #AiArt #DigitalArt #ModernArt #NightVibes #MoodyScene #MysteryVibes #Midjourney

Echoes on the Curve.
#ArtDigital #SurrealArt #Dreamscape #SymbolicArt #VisualPoetry #AI #AiArt #DigitalArt #ModernArt #CinematicMood #AtmosphericArt #CreativeExpression #MysteryVibes #Midjourney

Edge of Reflection.
#ArtDigital #SurrealArt #Dreamscape #AtmosphericArt #VisualPoetry #AI #AiArt #DigitalArt #ModernArt #SymbolicArt #CinematicMood #CreativeExpression #MysteryVibes #Midjourney

The Fall Into Silence.
#ArtDigital #SurrealArt #SymbolicArt #Dreamscape #ModernArt #CinematicMood #AI #AiArt #DigitalArt #VisualPoetry #CreativeExpression #MysteryVibes #AtmosphericArt #Midjourney

designbohemian.com Symbolic Wall Art Meets Dark Academia Wall Art For Brooding Charm https://designbohemian.com/blogs/news/symbolic-wall-art-meets-dark-academia-wall-art-for-brooding-charm-1-1769789917857?utm_source=dlvr.it&utm_medium=mastodon #DarkAcademia #WallArt #SymbolicArt #MoodyDecor #GothicStyle

Symbolic Wall Art Meets Dark Academia Wall Art For Brooding Charm https://designbohemian.com/blogs/news/symbolic-wall-art-meets-dark-academia-wall-art-for-brooding-charm-1-1769789917857?utm_source=dlvr.it&utm_medium=mastodon #DarkAcademia #WallArt #GothicArt #MoodyAesthetics #SymbolicArt

Symbolic Wall Art Meets Dark Academia Wall Art For Brooding Charm https://designbohemian.com/blogs/news/symbolic-wall-art-meets-dark-academia-wall-art-for-brooding-charm-1-1769789917857?utm_source=dlvr.it&utm_medium=mastodon #DarkAcademia #WallArt #GothicArt #MoodyAesthetics #SymbolicArt

Eyes of the Omniscient.
#ArtDigital #SymbolicArt #Mysticism #OccultArt #VisionaryArt #EsotericVibes #SurrealArt #ModernArt #AI #AiArt #DigitalArt #CreativeExpression #EngravingStyle #ThirdEye #Midjourney

Recognizing oneself in a dream. Tribute to "The Color of Pomegranates."

#dreamscapes #pomegranates #symbolism #symbolicart #symbolicjourney #film

https://youtube.com/shorts/csmnZoVA1mY?si=8fTZbYou9IW-GVdt

Drip Drop Splash Ripple Motion by Joan Stratton - paintingsbyjoan.com

Available here: https://joan-stratton.pixels.com/featured/drip-drop-splash-ripple-motion-joan-stratton.html
#FediGiftShop
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Drip Drop Splash Ripple Motion by Joan Stratton - paintingsbyjoan.com

Available here: https://joan-stratton.pixels.com/featured/drip-drop-splash-ripple-motion-joan-stratton.html
#FediGiftShop
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Drip Drop Splash Ripple Motion by Joan Stratton - paintingsbyjoan.com

Available here: https://joan-stratton.pixels.com/featured/drip-drop-splash-ripple-motion-joan-stratton.html
#FediGiftShop
#Water #drip #drop #splash #ripple #motion #SymbolicArt
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Drip Drop Splash Ripple Motion by Joan Stratton - paintingsbyjoan.com

Available here: https://joan-stratton.pixels.com/featured/drip-drop-splash-ripple-motion-joan-stratton.html
#FediGiftShop
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Drip Drop Splash Ripple Motion by Joan Stratton - paintingsbyjoan.com

Available here: https://joan-stratton.pixels.com/featured/drip-drop-splash-ripple-motion-joan-stratton.html
#FediGiftShop
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Happy Friday 😊❤️

Channel Islands, stories linger like sea mist. Some speak of women who could read the land - not with maps, but with memory.

https://joan-stratton.pixels.com/featured/green-eyed-mystic-channel-island-watcher-of-symbols-joan-stratton.html
#FediGiftShop
#ChannelIslands #Mystic #Portraitofawoman #SymbolicArt
#WallArtDecor #ArtForChristmas #HolidayGifts
#Artforsale #Ayearforart #Buyintoart #GiftIdeas
#EtherArt #ArtCollectors #fediart #mastoart #CreativeToots #artist #artwork #Art #Paintingsbyjoan #JoanStratton @paintingsbyjoan

“The Rat Knows”

“A tangle of creatures and consciousness—this image dives into the chaos between dream and dread. Faces emerge, dissolve, and reassemble in a split world of shadow and light. It’s not meant to be solved, only felt.”
#SurrealPhotography
#NarrativeArt
#EmotiveImagery
#DreamlikeVisuals
#VisualPoetry
#SymbolicArt
#PhotographicSurrealism
#FineArtPhotography
#SilentStories
#TimeAndMemory
#HDRPhotography
#PhotoManipulation
#LaserEngravingArt
#SlateEngraving
#DigitalPhotoArt

“The Rat Knows”

“A tangle of creatures and consciousness—this image dives into the chaos between dream and dread. Faces emerge, dissolve, and reassemble in a split world of shadow and light. It’s not meant to be solved, only felt.”
#SurrealPhotography
#NarrativeArt
#EmotiveImagery
#DreamlikeVisuals
#VisualPoetry
#SymbolicArt
#PhotographicSurrealism
#FineArtPhotography
#SilentStories
#TimeAndMemory
#HDRPhotography
#PhotoManipulation
#LaserEngravingArt
#SlateEngraving
#DigitalPhotoArt

Striking - Do you have or do you know anyone who has, dual-coloured eyes?

Dual eyes, dual worlds, she stands at the threshold of silence and song 🌿✨

https://joan-stratton.pixels.com/featured/between-realms-light-and-dark-dual-eye-celtic-woman-joan-stratton.html

#FediGiftShop
#CelticArt #dualcolor #SymbolicArt #symbolism #CulturalBeauty #Portrait
#WallArtDecor #ArtForChristmas #HolidayGifts
#Artforsale #Ayearforart #Buyintoart #GiftIdeas
#EtherArt #ArtCollectors #fediart #mastoart #CreativeToots #artist #artwork #Art #Paintingsbyjoan #JoanStratton @paintingsbyjoan

Shamrocks in bloom, Celtic spirit alive—this portrait celebrates heritage, beauty, and symbolism. 🌿✨

Available here: https://joan-stratton.pixels.com/featured/celtic-girl-with-shamrock-flowers-joan-stratton.html

#FediGiftShop
#CelticArt #ShamrockFlowers #HeritagePortrait #SymbolicArt #symbolism #CulturalBeauty #Portrait
#WallArtDecor #ArtForChristmas #HolidayGifts
#Artforsale #Ayearforart #Buyintoart #GiftIdeas
#EtherArt #ArtCollectors #fediart #mastoart #CreativeToots #artist #artwork #Art #Paintingsbyjoan #JoanStratton @paintingsbyjoan

Pieces of me drift across time - layered in colour, memory, and myth. A portrait not of one moment, but many.

https://joan-stratton.pixels.com/featured/pieces-of-me-travel-throughout-time-joan-stratton.html

#FediGiftShop
#portrait #westafricianwoman #symbolicart #artlover #ArtCollectors #CreativeToots #DigitalArt #MixedMediaArt #artist #artwork #fediart #mastoart #Art #Artforsale #Ayearforart #Buyintoart #giftideas #Paintingsbyjoan #JoanStratton @paintingsbyjoan

Helping Hands (8 Photos)

https://streetartutopia.com/2026/02/27/helping-hands-2/

Helping Hands (8 Photos)

https://streetartutopia.com/2026/02/27/helping-hands-2/

Helping Hands (8 Photos)

https://streetartutopia.com/2026/02/27/helping-hands-2/

Helping Hands (8 Photos)

https://streetartutopia.com/2026/02/27/helping-hands-2/

Helping Hands (8 Photos)

https://streetartutopia.com/2026/02/27/helping-hands-2/

A painting started long ago, that I think may be finished today. I’m really happy where it is at.

Deciduous, Evergreen, Rocks & Hard Places
Oil on Stretched Canvas, 16 x 16”

I will be making prints of this painting. Please let me know if you are interested.

#art #artwork #symbolicart #FigurativeArt #painting #gardening #bonsai #landscape
#mastoart #fediart #ColoreTonFil #

"Child's Sail Adventure"

#ArtisticJourney #ChildhoodAdventure #SailingBoat #WaterColors #PeacefulVibes #SymbolicArt #IndianArtInspo

https://sanukumarverma.com/childs-sail-adventure/?utm_source=mastodon&utm_medium=jetpack_social

🌹🖤 Thorns of Solitude — the beauty feared, the loneliness endured.
This digital download pairs Kiana Jimenez’s poem Black Rose with Dave White’s Black Rose. A haunting meditation on difference, resilience, and hidden beauty.#ThornsOfSolitude #PoeticBipolarMind #KianaJimenez #DaveWhiteIllustrations #PoetryAndArt #DigitalDownload #BlackRose #GothicPoetry #SymbolicArt #ResilienceArt #EmotiveFusionArt

https://poeticbipolarmind.blog/product/thorns-of-solitude/?utm_source=mastodon&utm_medium=jetpack_social

💸🖤 Ledger of the Lost — where worth is tallied, but never whole.
This digital download pairs Kiana Jimenez’s poem Self-Worth with Dave White’s illustration Sell Yourself. A haunting meditation on value, identity, and what is lost in the ledger of survival. #LedgerOfTheLost #PoeticBipolarMind #KianaJimenez #DaveWhiteIllustrations #PoetryAndArt #DigitalDownload #GothicPoetry #SymbolicArt #Commodification #EmotiveFusionArt

https://poeticbipolarmind.blog/product/ledger-of-the-lost/?utm_source=mastodon&utm_medium=jetpack_social

🌿🌑 The Willow’s Lament — sorrow drapes like branches, yet hope flickers in the shade.
This digital download pairs Kiana Jimenez’s poem Binds with Dave White’s evocative Willow. A haunting fusion of poetry and art. ✨ #TheWillowsLament #PoeticBipolarMind #KianaJimenez #DaveWhiteIllustrations #PoetryAndArt #DigitalDownload #GothicPoetry #ResilienceArt #SymbolicArt #GothicLiterature #EmotiveFusionArt

https://poeticbipolarmind.blog/product/the-willows-lament/?utm_source=mastodon&utm_medium=jetpack_social

🌻✨ Psychedelic Sunflower by Dave White — A familiar flower transformed into a radiant vision of swirling color and surreal energy. Bold, vibrant, and alive with imagination. #PsychedelicSunflower #DaveWhiteIllustrations #PoeticBipolarMind #VisionsCollection #PsychedelicArt #SunflowerArt #SurrealArt #BotanicalArt #ColorfulArt #VibrantArt #SymbolicArt #OriginalArt #DigitalDownloadArt #COA #OneOfAKindArt

https://poeticbipolarmind.blog/product/psychedelic-sunflower/?utm_source=mastodon&utm_medium=jetpack_social

💎⛏️ Mining by Dave White — A surreal underground world where gems glow in hidden caves and hard work uncovers beauty. Each stone tells a story of persistence and discovery. #Mining #DaveWhiteIllustrations #PoeticBipolarMind #VisionsCollection #GemstoneArt #CavernArt #SymbolicArt #SurrealArt #UndergroundArt #ImaginativeArt #OriginalArt #DigitalDownloadArt #COA #OneOfAKindArt

https://poeticbipolarmind.blog/product/mining/?utm_source=mastodon&utm_medium=jetpack_social

A Mural Of the Statue of Liberty In Shame

https://streetartutopia.com/2025/08/29/a-mural-of-the-statue-of-liberty-in-shame/

Illusion, identity, and the shimmer of truth—this surreal portrait blurs the line between what’s seen and what’s felt.
🪞 It’s Smoke and Mirrors now available as prints, home décor, and gifts.
https://joan-stratton.pixels.com/featured/its-smoke-and-mirrors-joan-stratton.html

#SurrealPortrait #SymbolicArt #JoanStratton #PaintingsByJoan #DigitalArt #EmotionalSymbolism #AbstractExpression #MirrorMotif #IdentityInArt #EtherArt #FragmentedBeauty #GiftIdeas #AustralianArtist #FediGiftShop #fediart #ArtCollectors #ArtForSale #BuyIntoArt #MastoArt

Illusion, identity, and the shimmer of truth—this surreal portrait blurs the line between what’s seen and what’s felt.
🪞 It’s Smoke and Mirrors now available as prints, home décor, and gifts.
https://joan-stratton.pixels.com/featured/its-smoke-and-mirrors-joan-stratton.html

#SurrealPortrait #SymbolicArt #JoanStratton #PaintingsByJoan #DigitalArt #EmotionalSymbolism #AbstractExpression #MirrorMotif #IdentityInArt #EtherArt #FragmentedBeauty #GiftIdeas #AustralianArtist #FediGiftShop #fediart #ArtCollectors #ArtForSale #BuyIntoArt #MastoArt

Illusion, identity, and the shimmer of truth—this surreal portrait blurs the line between what’s seen and what’s felt.
🪞 It’s Smoke and Mirrors now available as prints, home décor, and gifts.
https://joan-stratton.pixels.com/featured/its-smoke-and-mirrors-joan-stratton.html

#SurrealPortrait #SymbolicArt #JoanStratton #PaintingsByJoan #DigitalArt #EmotionalSymbolism #AbstractExpression #MirrorMotif #IdentityInArt #EtherArt #FragmentedBeauty #GiftIdeas #AustralianArtist #FediGiftShop #fediart #ArtCollectors #ArtForSale #BuyIntoArt #MastoArt

Illusion, identity, and the shimmer of truth—this surreal portrait blurs the line between what’s seen and what’s felt.
🪞 It’s Smoke and Mirrors now available as prints, home décor, and gifts.
https://joan-stratton.pixels.com/featured/its-smoke-and-mirrors-joan-stratton.html

#SurrealPortrait #SymbolicArt #JoanStratton #PaintingsByJoan #DigitalArt #EmotionalSymbolism #AbstractExpression #MirrorMotif #IdentityInArt #EtherArt #FragmentedBeauty #GiftIdeas #AustralianArtist #FediGiftShop #fediart #ArtCollectors #ArtForSale #BuyIntoArt #MastoArt

Illusion, identity, and the shimmer of truth—this surreal portrait blurs the line between what’s seen and what’s felt.
🪞 It’s Smoke and Mirrors now available as prints, home décor, and gifts.
https://joan-stratton.pixels.com/featured/its-smoke-and-mirrors-joan-stratton.html

#SurrealPortrait #SymbolicArt #JoanStratton #PaintingsByJoan #DigitalArt #EmotionalSymbolism #AbstractExpression #MirrorMotif #IdentityInArt #EtherArt #FragmentedBeauty #GiftIdeas #AustralianArtist #FediGiftShop #fediart #ArtCollectors #ArtForSale #BuyIntoArt #MastoArt