Melting dark chocolate eyes emit warmth as green eyes spark
recognition of common dreams . . .
Broadened planes spread out before me,
emitting an earthy scent along this rugged road.
We traverse well-worn paths which intersect with shadows,
then branch out into new directions.
Obstacles overcome only begin lighting the way to harvesting harmony.
Melding many voices by scatting diverse views into a melodic tune feels SO fine!
Spirits flow from diverse religious boundaries to an all-encompassing keyboard.
Let us live with purposeful intent, striving for unity.




Undulating waves of dust particles blow over me,
hearts beat softly then pound out the pain.

Political repercussions mount as we revisit chaos.

Footprints of historical lessons are ignored.

Diplomacy is discarded like a faded carcass
left to dry in the scorching sun.

Peeling parchment drops down onto my tortured brain,
you declare independence while I choke on the fumes of deceit.
Panning for gold uncovers toxic acid eminating from the depths of our earth.

Beads of sweat begin to pool in the crevices of pretenders
when confronted about creating a legacy of nebulous waste.



"If I can't live the charmed life, teach me to love the mundane." - Kerry Shea

My personal history emerges from each sculpture I create.
Inevitably, I ruminate more deeply over the current escalation of societal violence. Whether the creative outcome is buried within the clay or clearly visible, ever present is my belief that the current erosion of a humanistic culture will be restored.
(miniature male portrait with blackened hollow eye socket)


Symbol of self:
an ambiguous flower.
By day, my stem remains
rigid and tough,
allowing no approach.

Screaming colors of purity
transform fear.
Protected, unreleased petals
fold inward to achieve
necessary seclusion.

By night, rationale dismissed
as petals stretch out and up,
softly flowing with emotion.

Now shyly blushing in muted colors,
gentle voices of wisdom creep in. . .
Light and dark connections intertwine
as floating dreams reveal my essence.
(large triple portrait with worn, aged blue-black finish)

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A face glimpsed, quickly vanishing beneath the surface.
Working from within while remaining connected.
The wrinkled seams of my body unfold hope.
My frayed edges spread joy.
One mouth opens a door, imagining peace.
We will climb higher, arriving on the other side.
(dark green matte glaze with melting faces)

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Swimming upstream,
struggling for release
from suppressed feelings.
Weaving in and out of memories,
anchored by despair, until now.
Emotions produce art.
My face emerges intact.
Blurry borders are sharp.
Turbulence is stilled.

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On a bush outside my door
there grew a wild rose.
Upon it were varied hues.

Today I see a pale bud
scarcely open under the sun,
basking in the warmth.

The joy of being

As the days pass, it becomes
a deep blood red.
Now fully open to the elements,
from gusty winds and stormy nights.

As the season comes to a close,
so does the rose's beauty.
Tomorrow it will droop,
Toward the ground.

Petal after petal, falling away
until only the dried stem

"Have no fear of perfection - you'll never reach it." - Salvador Dali

"The true perfection of man lies not in what man has, but in what man is." - Oscar Wilde

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Living among the poor,
I gaze through a speckled window:
only gray dominates this scene of wonder,
mottled snow a sparse coating upon brown mud.

As I descend this shadowy stairwell, I see a drooping,
unfinished daffodil struggling to be born
amidst dismal surroundings.

Living among the poor,
I come upon a weary girl, shuffling along,
head bent over, afraid to look ahead. . .
She is young yet old, without hope.

Living among the poor,
rusty, abandoned cars line these streets,
sputtering and crying out for relief.

Grant us freedom from this vicious cycle. . .
These withered trees bend along with me in sorrow,
sheltering us with a glimmer of hope. . .

Living among the poor,
so weary of these visions I've become,
my eyes long to forever close.
Still, this body won't rest until we all
walk through this garden of waste.

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A gentle whisper filled with purposeful strength.
Leaving behind a legacy of colorful stories,
layered with lessons for the future.
Ghostly images are released. . .
spilled onto paper while climbing into a space.
Confusion and despair tangled with memories hover,
A floating vision returns, traveling back
again and again like a song's refrain.

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A sun-warped mermaid flicks her fin,
clammed up in a dark shell,
so longing to swim far beyond her confines.

A wondrously scaled body is glimpsed
from below but quickly vanishes,
lost beneath the rippled surface ,
remaining elusive forever more.

(Large blue-green -black mermaid 's finish dremeled down
to naked clay after firing to weather)

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Here begins the nonsensical story retrieved from a dream; admittedly, the facts were slightly embellished: (Resulting was this grotesque standing figure)
LOOPY LEFTY never ventured out unless his carving tools were firmly attached to his back and beneath his undergarments. (One must be prepared at all times!) After a row with his cantankerous wife about his consumption of two gallons per day of fermented apple juice and his obsessive carving, he went hiking alone. Why couldn't she understand a man's insatiable thirst? (He wasn't about to give up his favorite habit of sucking juice through a bendy-straw!)
Fate intervened while hiking as too much suction made his left eyeball pop out of its socket. It began traveling down a steep embankment until, alas, it bounced over the edge and toward a ravenous shark seen swimming the breaststroke below. (Now what, Loopy!?) Lefty quickly reached into the murky water to retrieve his battered eyeball. (Oh, no, it's gone!) Suddenly out popped the left hand from his wrist as that devious demon devoured yet another delightful snack. Fortunately, his hand was easily replaced with an efficient loop tool retrieved from his back storage compartment. In the end, one must ask oneself what was the painful lesson Loopy Lefty learned? "NEVER drink from a bendy-straw without proper supervision, and, PLEASE, buy yourself a decent tool belt!"

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The twisted tree is made elegant by children's voices . . .

Climbing to the top,
aching under the weight of nimble feet.
Never buckling for fear of losing those adventurous tenants.
Sheltering secrets while listening closely
for the songbird's arrival each Spring.

A beautiful child peers again through my tenacious branches,
While reaching high into the warm sun.
I hear her red dress tearing as it catches in descent.
If you cut me down, so much is lost.

I'm still listening. . .

(bending tree man based on true events/ related to raping rainforests for profit)


"Have you ever seen such a luscious sheen?! Yes, I've just been dipped in chocolate or so it seems. After stirring together all those drips of leftover glazes, the resulting color truly amazes . . ."

(I decided to create a humorous tribute to those brave souls who "dare to be different". . . here's to letting all those dreadlocks blow freely in the wind!)

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"Nothing that is complete breathes." - Antonio Porcia, Voces, 1943

"The thing that is really hard, and really amazing, is giving up on being perfect and beginning to work on becoming yourself." - Anna Quindlen

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All those dark days, ever so vigilant,
a sentry on guard is my third eye. . .
still waiting for the next blow.
Swollen with misuse, a shattered spirit
is pieced back together like an ancient quilt
whose edges are frayed and worn.
Regress and progress, weaving together a
missed childhood and premature senility.

(gas-fired, iron oxide brown man with old brass ball,
braided clay and silk threads)

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UNLEASHED BEAST (donated to Epidemic Peace Imagery project) 2005

Why do artists continue to express themselves? An internal force drives each
artist to speak about personal experiences to create a clearer understanding
of him/herself and the global community.
After the Iraqi war ensued "Unleashed Beast" began as a necessity in dealing
with my emotions. It began with slashing, angry marks while ripping into
seemingly raw, exposed flesh on the head's opening. Carving emotions relayed
my disturbance about poor leadership decisions and distorted media coverage.
"BLAH, BLAH, BLAH . . . . Quit talking! Watch your backside!"
Then I began to ponder the loss of innocent life and incorporated the child's
game "tic-tack-toe-YOU LOSE!" Hidden inside one ear is a man asking
us to LISTEN. What we should be listening for is open to interpretation.
As I sculpted my anger became more manageable. Asking how I could
make any difference in progress towards a peaceful resolution is difficult
at best. Next, a kindly beast emerged along with a tiny peace symbol.
Despite all the ongoing destruction in our world, we must believe
that peace will be restored by combining each individual action.

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Re. PAINTING "THE SCREAMING SIREN!" 2006 (disrespectful discourse)

There she goes . . . shootin' her big mouth off again! YOU'RE UNDER ARREST!
Move away from the victims. An incredible injury has occurred requiring introspection. Due to a series of disastrous events illuminating your limitations we are unable to accept we must flee to live amongst our kind. Now MOVE ASIDE so that we may operate more efficiently in our narrow world. Let me

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(OH, it's fun bein' a kid again!)

Don't lock me up inside that BOX!
I feel so ill at ease . . .
Just close your eyes, then SHAKE me up . . .
Think back to childhood dreams.
My belly's fat. I'm THE cat who's
FULL of silly beans!


"Live as if you were to die tomorrow. Learn as if you were to live forever." - Mahatma Ghandi

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(Katrina vessel with multiple figures, swirling glazes in blues, 12"h x 10"w x 12"d)
by Kerry Shea

Can't believe in what I see,
sweet souls unfold, lift up to Glory be.
The waves rush in and then recede,
there's just no way I can believe . . .

Your pain engulfs me, we're lost at sea.
Shining lights in darkest sky,
grief grows strong, we don't ask why.

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By Kerry Shea

Mother: symbol of sanctuary mercilessly shattered,
begging for protection, mostly ignored.
My insides are rotting away by your apathy.
Alone, shattered pieces of my mirror reflect shame,
the other view is reserved for public display.
Caught in an inky trap, I force down mangled memories.
Tied to these choking hands, I cannot scream:
"I'll KILL you if you tell."
(those hands . . . those terrible hands. . . . )
The time has come to sever this twisted cord.
What will the neighbors think?! You deserve it.
Just hide the bruises, ignore the pain.
"You're worthless" reverberates within my brain.
Look at me! You heard my screams.
Your silence gave a raging terrorist power.
You gave me nothing. Now, I am reclaiming my soul.
Vivid dreams spill into consciousness like acid.
My faltering steps stop when I find the bottle.
Grief revisits until, once again, I am in control.
I was a victim of you both, crushed against your wall of sins.
Respect requires amnesia.
I will not forget so that your pattern of pain ends.
Your feet are still bleeding on my glass shards.
Rhetorical questions grow horns as I move past the debris.
Just breathe. You're safe. Reach for my hand. Trust me.

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MAD TOWN MUSE by Jason Sommers - Jan. 07

"Our crew was invited to the studio of Kerry Shea on a cold afternoon. Upon
entering the little house on the hill, I was taken aback by its inner
wonders. The artist proudly displayed her works on a multitude of shelves
she installed herself. At first glance anyone could tell her affinity with
color bordered on the sublime. Each piece was an obvious story waiting to
be told in the artist's language of sculpture. With a closer look, the use
of clay was a definite passion for Kerry. Her use of negative space and
strangely postured figures sang a song of bitterness overcome and challenges

The tour began of the small studio bringing me to a halt at each marvelous
prize, wondering and dreaming about the inspirations for each piece. Kerry
was kind enough to share her experiences with me and show how the tortures
of the world became her art. Many of her works showed duality in her subtle
and sometimes blatant fashion as if the world needed to see its shadow and
justify itself to it. Goblinlike grins, angelic form and pure abstract
oddity surrounded the room as if daring all to brave its light and dark
nature. A true wonderland to those willing to express their own twisted
inner nature and free it from inside the dark crevices of the subconscious.

Our photographer ran through three rolls of film in this studio and gallery
and before we knew it the first snow had fallen. We had to get home so we
thanked Kerry for the inside look of her passionate work. We drove home
with a renewed sense of wonder with hopes to revisit the gallery on the hill
once more." -- Jason Sommers 1/07

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Kerry Shea 2006

My story's long, my leg's too short.
A TEN INCH guy with no cohorts.
My lover's lost to my dismay.
"size doesn't matter!?!?"
that's what YOU say . . .
It's hard to keep the blues at bay,
but if you come back soon to play,
I'll stand up on a stool all day!

Kerry Shea 2006

Don't be anxious, don't be scared. . .
I'm here to hold you if you dare.
My infection is this silly grin,
reachin' from my toes up to your chin!

Our roots grow deep & hold us strong,
but what is life without a song?
Lift up your limbs & start to sway,
tomorrow is another day.

My inspiration for this sculpture came about
following hurricane Katrina. We witnessed
unimaginable horrors along with an incredible
outpouring of love from many individuals.
For those bravest of survivors, my hope is that
their faith was restored in humanity.


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© All content on this page is written by Kerry Shea unless otherwise stated.

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