Works 02
At the Crossroads
18" x 24"
acrylic / canvas
Near the junction she is sitting
frail her memories return.
behind the giggling hands
they point and whisper,
a shrine to all that's left the world.
Into our midst she entered softly
brought us fire to warm our thoughts
to dance upon our furtive faces,
ministered to the fear among us
which sat like jackdaws on our heads.
Made us stand and smile
through teardrops
which channeled down our gritty hides
made our eyes look at each others
till our shaking chests had stilled.
Now she waits by
the harbour crossroads
where sailors leave their love behind
and if you should be blessed to see her
lead her by your open door.
Behind the Indigo Door
18" x 24"
acrylic / canvas
Outside in the world of scrutiny and stares
I carry my burdensome mask to soothe,
to calm and placate them with my fitting in
not jarring with my presence.
Myself and all the others
not quite connected or quite real
cedar faces on a totem
same direction....different aspect.
But once behind my indigo door
I slip into my skin of truth
and put upon the coat of me
and climb down from the lofty pole
to roam freely in the woods.
This terrain is so familiar
for it is the land of self
and every beast's at my command
. . . behind the indigo door.
Big Hat Village
No Poem
Cuban Music
No Poem
Dancing Downtown With Strangers
18" x 24"
acrylic / canvas
I'm taking the reigns of Saturday morning
I'm riding that beast to a happier place
I will dance with a person I've yet to encounter
the sidewalks of tension
I'll consider no more.
I will dance with a stranger downtown
and remember
when every face belonged to a friend.
I will make people stop
in the midst of the busy
and they'll think and they'll smile
. . . and join in the dance.
Does Anyone Hear?
Does anyone hear the small voice
in the overloaded matrix
over-layered by champions
of the slick and noisy aspect.
Have we time to probe
the edges
of the wise and tranquil sound
Is our hearing sharp that we might hear
when a swallow's heart has stopped.
The First Date
18" x 24"
acrylic / canvas
He remembers the thrill,
the wolf on the hill
when he met her at reedy hollow
and how her love she had saved
till his flowers he gave
and she pledged all her life
him she'd follow.
Flower in an Oil Can
A warm sun gently sifting through
the chill December branches.
You are to me the unexpected.
Unannounced upon
my diligent disrespect
an entrance without herald,
spinning around the sycamore seeds
to show your untroubled dance
. . . you come.
A child's laugh in a storm.
A bird's nest in the barbed wire.
Am I awake yet
that I might feel a hand
upon my face
cool on hot skin
calm on turmoil.
Could I shake my head
that all decaying dust
might shudder from me.
That water on parched land
might announce,
that a flower in an oil can
might reveal,
that eyes once crusted over
might flash,
to tell me that,
hope . . . is still embedded.
High Tea
High tea with Miss. E.
philosophy, late afternoon
not one religion
left unturned,
not one lover
left unremembered.
Rain on window pane
barely heard
as the bones of life
are picked quite clean.
Art brought down
from its ivory tower
and passed around
like buttered scones,
science with the marzipan
politics on crumpets.
Darjeeling loose leaf
and some answers,
while the rain
softly purrs.
Hope Just Dangling
18" x 24"
acrylic / canvas
Her salty lips now speak his name aloud
to a picture in a pocket watch
while her mermaid's hair dries slowly
in the gloomy sunset.
And on the vinyl stool she finds herself
in sad cafe with heeled shoe dangling
off her foot ...like hope
just dangling.
She sits upon the mirthless rocks
sharp eyed gazing past point of land
and lighthouse blink
to where the unforgiving curve
shows sail-less on the skyline.
And in her hand a wooden stick
to stir her untouched coffee...
the ring on her finger a gift from him
out of sync... like a small lost dog.
A paper boat he made for her
floating near her green scaled skin
and looking up at the diner's clock
she sees that it is... timeless.
If Mothers Made Sanctions
18" x 24"
acrylic / canvas
And if by chance mischievous fate
yet sometimes just
succumbed to irony's bidding
could tweak the nose of power
and wrestle clout from happenstance rule...
if sensible day dawned on a not yet time
when mothers made sanctions
. . . well wouldn't that be sweet.
If mothers made sanctions
might they withhold milk from babies mouth
and pencils from small classroom hand,
or ointment from the old man's foot.
Would she care not enough for growing life
to let the water rot.
Might the joy of a village far away
and unbeknown to us... return
if mothers made sanctions?
November Street
acrylic / canvas
I wonder if he'll come
from his tired old den
where familiar things are locked in place
and never moved when he's not there.
Where the air like his life
is still and free from turbulence
and colour.
Will the gate
at the end of my garden path
be like the portcullis above castle moat.
Will the way be fraught
with perilous thoughts.
Could my hedge be a trap with no escape
and my house a temple to a foreign god.
If he hears a dog bark
might he turn and flee.
Do the night garden flowers
have an alien scent
and what happens when he knocks
upon my door,
will the sound echo down
to his very core.
Why would he possibly want to come
and leave his home
for November streets
and walk to the cliff
where his life might change . . .
but I think he might
and the porch light is on . . .
and I think I heard the latch on the gate.
On Fields of Gold #1
18" x 24"
acrylic / canvas
On fields of gold they intersect
the person and the partridge.
small players below big sky.
deep in thought...then startled
. . . then exit.
Touch tangent, heart racing
the person and the partridge
lost again in themselves.
but now connecting, belonging
paths crossed, contact made
the person and the partridge
move on . . . somewhat wiser
Our Town
Our town was small
and safe
and cried when it fell
sometimes.
Filled with good tomorrows
licked by sunsets
enormous red
that filled my village head
with tenderness.
Our town was an old man
who gave me a coin
and never had to leave
to find the answers,
and a big brown relic
who watched me
over its oat bag
as I grew.
Our town bunched together
nodding knowingly
when word from the outside
filtered through
and the baker added
an extra bun, winking,
but the ancient who
cut the churchyard grass
never smiled again.
The Ring of Brodgar
18" x 24"
acrylic / canvas
In through the out doors
past the clock with wrong numbers
ticking endlessly backwards
beyond perspective and page,
down the long varnished corridors
of pipe tobacco terror
past the monument to failure as solid as rot.
Through the gates of the factory
where Deception's emblazened
on a banner of silk which seems never to tear
where machines of pale fortune
scream at the last remnant
and the words that are spoken
fall like dust to the floor.
Like a sad trapped weasel
I gnaw off my past
and slip through a crack between
Main St. and death
through a small door left opened
yet bolted on each side
past the guards dressed as parents
to the hill where men pray.
And wading through waters
where the red sun is swirling
through the ring of stones standing
where lovers decide,
I find a vagrant singing
with words that are my words
and inside his backpack
a clock that has stopped.
Soft Shoe Leather
18" x 24"
acrylic / canvas
Like an old wrench in my hand it fits
sometimes . . . this life.
Like a chair in the den sometimes despised...
it snuggles me . . . this life
and I rub shoulders with the smooth sky
. . . interlocked and belonging.
Two halves of a pantomime horse
we dance and kick our heels
. . . this life and I while dreams are shared
and this world is a gallery
for my paintings
. . . soft shoe leather for my feet.
. . . So I Walk the Dog
18" x 24"
acrylic / canvas
From vaguely threatening headlines
I flee.
From a cataclysmic subtext
which is rarely absent , I flee
and scorn the substance of fear
which sits with self important confidence
beside my cornflakes like
a corrupt standing stone
fashioned to the wrong deity.
And always and also
has it seemed to some
that the sun might stagger from
its blood stained sheets ....and avenge.
So I flee the madness ...
and walk the dog.
Spirit Bear and Me
I never knew I had a face
till through a glass darkly
it smiled wanly back,
looking over my shoulder
to a grey photo past
barely contained
in the core of my head.
I never knew I had two hands
till I dug in black earth
to search for a root
which had no ending
though I dug deep
and reached all the way down
to a grey photo past.
I never knew I had a life
till the Spirit Bear led me
through forest floor
to the edge of night river
where his reflection was huge
and we stood there together
in a gray photo past.
The Fool #2
18" x 24"
acrylic / canvas
Among the wise I throng to work
to where my mind resists,
to make a difference.
Important beyond measure
I wait the allotted years
to rest and watch the butterflies.
Not so the fool
who keeps the same hours as the lily
who's slow and witless mind
opens slowly like the flower
and who's notes from his whistle
clear and sweet
sail above the sage-less water
float among the mindless trees
and back to him
who knows so little.
Importunately he looks
upon the butterfly wing
and marvels at its being there
while his tune
so full of promise
goes unheard.
The Golden Ball
18" x 24"
acrylic / canvas
I heard a bird call
when the pain was great
and the spilled blood of
long and jostling years
which keep such terrible company
spattered
on my laughing face.
I saw a golden ball when
every fiber of the world
was gray,
when every heavy trodden foot
chased monotone ripples
to the edge of man's dream.
It shone to resist the dark.
I met someone who didn't fit
who held my shaking hands in hers,
who spun me round on
stubbled ground
and made my feet do foolish things.
Who ripped from me
that hopeless cloth
and took me to the burnished sphere
. . . among the woodbine
where the thrush
would not be silenced.
The Last Feather
Shimmering on the porch of Paradise
elfin eyed and wings profuse
with heavy feather ,twitching
with innocent curiosity,
at the limit of man's reasoning.
Incandescent and wondrous shaped
designed before the stroke of time.
Unimpeachable : the last bird south
Fall's final irreplaceable leaf...
Heaven's last and glorious angel.
Beleaguered no more
by sin's deep heartbeat
chaste and simple now he waits
as bone white gates glide open on
these hinges that will soon be rust.
And this chasm of last chances
this abyss of broken ivory bridge
now filled with soundless azure blue
as one last feather spirals downward
herald of the grief to come.
The Monumental Whisper
acrylic / canvas
In a dark lichened voice they speak
as he goes by.
The stones... which have been silent
since the world dared not mention his name,
cry their husky tones
like a crow's beak on rock.
"Onward" ! They say and frame his name
in heavy flinted throat
their tongue so long unused
its ancient syllables dusty and cracked
now fill the air
with monumental whisper.
"Go on " ! They delight , granite hewn
this time so long awaited
"Go on and tell them " !
and giggling as only rocks can
. . . they take their turn at last.
Two of Everything
Two of love
Two of death
Two of every last breath
Our primrose laughter
in Longcoats field
scared the one horned sheep
who flew to her lamb.
And we heard a cuckoo
with no reply,
but we had each other
so we didn't care,
down by the marsh
where the black bull died.
Two of love
Two of death
Two of every last breath.
When the Last Guest has Gone
Mrs. W. removed her finery
when the last guest had gone
singing without hindrance
in her birthday suit.
Fingers rattling piano keys
she warbled her songs of love
to partners now gone
and nobody knew . . . but I.