Please pardon the mess, It seems I’m always putting this thing back together.
Welcome. I’m Rick Yost, and this is where I display my pencil art.
Click the links at the top of the page, or thumbnails below, to view my galleries.
To purchase high-quality prints of my work, go to FineArtAmerica.com.
And you can find my art on t-shirts & coffee mugs, etc., at Zazzle.com.
Graphite Color Pencil Pastels Stonage
And on THIS PAGE, I’ll be posting, in a very capricious manner, my thoughts, opinions, poems, and the occasional sativa-inspired rant about life, suburbia, and the daily pursuit of my coffee cup.
Click the social links to follow me on Facebook and YouTube.
If you’d like, please leave a comment, I’d love some feedback. But I’m not a blogger, so forgive any long delay in my responses.
Please, new friend, if you will, let others know about my art, and this site.
Thank you so much for taking a look.
Our constant fight to survive the malice, treachery, buffoonery, and indifference of our own kind, is the darkest joke life tells.
And what do we do with our combined human genius? We build weapons, create toxic waste, and develop endless toys, and juvenile distractions.
We barely know how to think, we sure don’t know yet, how to dream.
photo: Elena Karneeva /www.elenakarneeva.ru
I hate to say it, I really do, but I think America is almost done, folks. We’ve gone about as far as we can, struggling to survive in this thick atmosphere of nationwide-corruption. The whole country lives and operates in a perpetual state of malfeasance, and profiteering of one sort or another. Think about it.
If we, as citizens, can no longer TRUST; the medical profession, the legal system, financial institutions, law-enforcement, the military, the media, our electronics, our communications, our money, any part of the infrastructure, utility companies, car companies, drug companies, food companies, or our schools and universities—what’s left?
If the only remaining power we have—the vote—has just been officially corrupted, by both major parties, then we’re screwed! Without an accurate count, our ‘voice’, our power of the ballot, is meaningless. Period.
I think this democratic experiment has run its natural course. Whatever we’re doing here, whatever this is, needs to evolve. And that’s probably going to hurt.
With results like this, I’ll bet-cha, from here on out, Mother Nature will think twice before she boosts the IQ of another species!
Art by: Mario Sanchez Nevado
The older I get, the more my questions lead me back to the most basic and simple truths imaginable. It’s like returning home from the hunt, to the familiar warmth of your own fire.
Photo by: www.pixabay.com
As we go about creating our creations, they evolve in our minds, our hearts, before our eyes, and in our hands. Be it a short story, sculpture, spicy recipe, or potted plant; it’s always new to us from moment to moment because it tickles our muse—it’s our progeny that continues to change, develop, and grow.
We’re constantly crafting the work, pushing the used-to-be aside, shifting the mass; a dash of style here, a flood of color there; reaching for a balance between our creation and our self, while allowing the chosen medium to do what it will, naturally.
Whatever the concept, the ‘brushes of flair’, be they cold chisel, lyric, or paint, flutter over and around the work, ever-changing, refining, and hoping.
Whether we’re painting a barn, composing a symphony, raising a child, or wrapping a present for a friend; our creations and ourselves, are always perfect, always changing, and hopefully improving. Life is not static, it shapes you as you shape it. Happy creating.
Art: Rick Yost
I didn’t have to be the man that I am
I could have been someone else
I pulled out the comfortable garments I wear
And put the box back up on the shelf
A would-be spy with tales of intrigue
Following shadows into the dark
I’ve obsessively trudged up this higher road
Escaping a trailer park
Some sad beginnings never seem to end
When does the end of childhood begin?
The who, the what, and where of my life
Held back by the force of the when
Even after walking away from so sad
The sad old addresses remain
My childhood ghost of Christmas past
Still leaves the gift of pain
But all is not lost at the lost and found
It’s better than it used to be
What I gained, standing in the rain
Is the strength to accept that I’m free.
Photo: Janine Orzes
Every morning, usually with reluctance, I begin the day with my wake up procedure. First, I wave around in the dark until I feel it, and slowly pull the dangling cord that raises my eyelids. Then I’ll pull up the lever that hoists my arm and rub my sleepy eye with my knuckle. After accepting ‘Yes, I really should get up!’, I’ll fire up the big engines and push the pedal to engage the muscle groups that sit me up onto the side of the bed.
Once there, I’ll give my head a little shake, in the same spirit as my dad slapping the side of the television to clear up the picture, I’m shaking out hydraulics and sensory systems to be sure they’re all fully functional. I’m jarring free any twisted connections or stressed wiring or tubes that may have been pinched or crimped as I slept.
After a short pre-flight checklist and I feel the motor has been adequately warmed up, I’ll go ahead and strap myself into the catbird seat, flip off the auto-pilot switch, slap the ‘Big Sigh’ button, and pull the lever down putting my vehicle into gear.
Art: Jeffrey Richter
I think of myself as a liberal because I’d love to see a liberal distribution of freedom, education, care and respect to everyone. I’d like to see a world where there’s real equality for everybody–everybody. Apparently that idea scares the shit out of some people.
I am so sick of this outdated, traditionally stupid ‘good ol’ boy’ white-guy prejudiced bullshit that just keeps on and on and on. Yes, I am white. Yes, I grew up in the 60’s around prejudiced white people, my father for one; and yet somehow, I didn’t get into it. I didn’t turn into a bigot myself like those around me. I didn’t have such an empty sponge-like mind that I soaked up my dad’s prejudice without filtering and made it my own. I looked at it for what it was–stupid.
I was able to distance myself from the crap I grew up with, my father’s mindset, and his generation full of hateful attitudes. If I can do it, why can’t all the white people of my generation leave it behind? Please stop passing on your supremacist-nonsense to your offspring.
It all comes from the fearfully-quivering weak minds of our past, our history–let it go.
Photo: Joseph Crachiola/ Macomb Daily 1973