Watercolor painting of a residence in Troy, New Hampshire. A snow covered driveway, with wheel marks revealing gravel and ground, winds up to the right in front of a large wooden garage. To the left is a pastel yellow clapboard house covered in warm sunlight. A cool, dark angular shadow runs across the face of the wooden garage underneath a peak and weathervane, smattered in bright snow.

Troy Residence. Direct Watercolor. 12"x9", 140lb Arches Cold Press.

#directwatercolor #watercolor #watercolour #aquarelle #aquarel #aquarela

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Under The Mayapples, 3/7/2026.
Digital painting

Karbon's World, 3/7/2026
Digital painting

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Hideout, 3/7/2026

There is a small child lying in the dark, a tight-pulled knot of hunger, thirst, and fear, not knowing what has happened to her home and friends and parents. Though she doesn’t understand, she has a hard-gained sick familiarity with sharp small-arms fire, dull explosions, shattered buildings, falling dust, has grown accustomed to the screams and to the screaming silence, waking and in dream. She can’t remember who she is — has lost her name, her playfulness, her curiosity, affection, warmth. She can’t remember where she lived: in Syria, or Yemen, or Sudan, or Palestine, Iraq, Ukraine, Somalia....? So many lands she might have once called home; they’ve merged into a broken nightmare, filled with smoke. It billows from a burnt-out tank, from blocks of flats and hospitals, from camp-fires, crematoria, and cigarettes that glow in sentried night — smoke is the substance, grief the form of war.

1917 Grandad died badly: drowned in a sucking, claggy trench at dawn, face down, lungs burning as they strained and failed to fill. Grandma maybe had it worse; she might have lived, but something in her broke the day the village fell, and she was raped too many times to count. She slit her wrists, and then – impatient, maybe – cut her throat. Their neighbour made it through all right, unharmed and sitting on a tidy profit from the sale of bayonets and boots. 1943 Dad died badly too, I’m told: roasted as he struggled to escape his tank, lungs seared with smoke and superheated air. Mum almost made it, joined a group of refugees that straggled down a road all overhung with willow and with Old Man’s Beard that hid them from the strafing planes — but they were found by soldiers from one side or the other, all the women raped, then shot and left to lie. Their neighbour spent the war in Switzerland, and ended up a millionaire: munitions and black-market booze. 2014 My body’s lain here underneath the rubble for a week or so. My wife was at her mother’s when they shelled our house; I heard her when she came back looking for me, but my mouth was shrivelled up with thirst, my lungs collapsed, I couldn’t call, not even when I heard them find her and my little daughter, when the two were raped and raped again, then casually shot. Still, B.A.E. and Hewlett Packard and the rest will have good news for shareholders this year.

The politicians, journalists, the vicars and the priests —they danced the measure given them by makers of munitions. They sprayed the language of the grave from spittle-shining lechers’ lips: the love of country. I did not give my life for any cause — my leaders wrapped them up in khaki, grey, or tan, tossed them away to serve commercial and political ambitions. I did not make a sacrifice — they threw me down upon an altar and cut out my heart, dyed little scraps of paper with my pulsing blood and pinned them on the chests of politicians, journalists, of vicars and of priests. They pinned them onto children while they murmured their seductive lies of honour, pride, and glory.

Would wars be shorter if, instead of solemn notices when loved ones fell, our letterboxes rattled with a sick parade of letters giving details of our loved ones’ kills?

Four poems on war.

#poem #poetry #skypoets #blueskypoets #poetsofbluesky #poetrycommunity #writingcommunity #warpoetry #warpoem

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Wu Li And Flash Meet Again, 3/4/2026

Lucid Ambiguity, 3/4/2026
Acrylic paint on watercolor paper

Painting On The Beach, 3/4/2026.
Watercolor and ink

Expressionistic landscape appearing to show a shadowed blue-green path or stream stretching away between two rows of trees, with a nondescript mound or bank of earth in the foreground to the lower right. The sky is aflame with blazing tongues of red, yellow and orange licking upward and casting stark highlights on the edges of the suggested treetrunks and swirling green masses of foliage at their tops. It looks as though we are standing in a forest watching a fire rage in the near distance, too large to extingush and too widespread to escape.

spontaneous #oilpainting to start the day, been missing the #art time

a bit fixated on a theme this past year, can’t imagine why

4 Mar 2026

#BlueSkyArt #scape #landscape #expressionist #forest #humanart #landscapepainting #appalachianartist

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Release The Flying Monkeys! 3/4/2026
Watercolor markers.

Separate Realities — 3/3/2026
Digitally enhanced photo

The darkness between things created an illusion that multiple realities exist at once, while concealing the underlying unity of their existence.

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Good morning!

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RIBBON DANCERS SERIES - Craig Robertson's Portfolio >scroll (right to left) to see all the images in the current gallery>click on any image to enlarge it>click on the two dashes in the upper left corner of the pageto access the other galleries on this ...

For those of you more interested in the scope of my artwork. Please visit my website. For viewing purposes only, no sales.
www.craigrobertsonart.com/home#1

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Karbon Watches The Aurora, 2/26/2026

White Rabbit, 2/26/2026
Watercolor and ink

Thank you!

Purple Hill, 2/25/2026
Acrylic painting on canvas

Good morning, greg! ☕🍳🥓🍪🚀✨

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I'm sorry for your loss. 🧡

What’s for Lunch – 2/24/2026

Photo.

I enjoy cooking almost as much as I enjoy painting; it’s just another creative outlet for me. Since it’s very cold outside, I made some spicy chicken curry soup for lunch.

Thinking About Summer, 2/24/2026.
Photos.