Works 03
Apples and Oranges
Twins we are ...almost
among the breaths of life
glad to call each other friend
in this fruit bowl of convenience.
On this platter
where we all must dwell
we're paired as cheese and bread...
peas and carrots
and some days when the glue wears thin
... custard and salt herring.
Bird in the Snow
(no poem for this painting)
Goldie by the Mighty Bowker
22" x 30"
acrylic / canvas
Not far from where I live
a jungle huge
and dark with mischief lies.
Where my cat , sharp toothed
when he is tired of us
goes to remember
and returns with triumph
to his savage land
. . . down by the willow.
Alert to any danger
eyes hungry for mouse
or dragonfly
in this poson dart world
of carrion crow
and wildebeest herd
he glides on killer feet
while the 28 bus
goes unwittingly by.
The Recital
18" x 24"
acrylic / canvas
Stepping into the lights
heart pounding
overcoming
doing it for moms and dads
and anxious dance instructors.
Remembering every step...
but mostly overcoming.
And everyone thinking,
"Oh" and "Ah",
and "Isn't she just..."
but she's just thinking,
"Keep the sky from falling !"
And dads with hearts like
prize marrows.....
for their girl is overcoming.
Mistress Music
acrylic / canvas
She took me to her side when
I was yet small.
From parents she lured me
with her lusty breath
and placed me on her shoulders
that I might see the colours
which I never then could leave.
As she moved
she played a million notes
which jingled in my savage head
and when she spoke,
the jigsaw pictures
came unjumbling from her mouth.
For she has loved us fiercely
since stone hit stone
and stick hit stick
and to everyone who ever falls
into her arms
so soft and strong.....
she is mistress , she is maid.
Tea Roses
acrylic / canvas
The Beautiful Game
acrylic / canvas
There was no life outside that
patch of green.
No homework.
No French verbs.
No summons for stealing apples
off that tree in Snobsville.
Just us the lads
and cousin Betty
before her time,
sweating and swearing
leaping over ankle cracking kicks
skidding past an outstretched hand.
To blast the ball past Billy Johnstone
whose father didn't even drink
would make the day fill up like Christmas
sweeter than a first in English,
than a kiss from Harry's older sister.
Legends 'neath a Scottish sky
heroes by the factory wall
a timeless crucible of safety.
No cares inside that patch of green
. . . a bloodied field of joy.
To Sit With Old Men
18" x 24"
acrylic / canvas
I sit down with old men
and read the ancient text
my fingers probe the incised stone...
meaning unfolds like prayer.
I feel the wiry thread
which ties me to a yestertime
my face so young , so old I see
upon the stonecutter's head.
I sit down with old men
and the pain of present sighs
while I pilgrim beside
their aged form
to a home I've never seen.
There's a well worn and familiar trail
innocent of time
and it brings me to an old man
with a chisel in his hand.
Urban Man
(Sold)
Dreams invaded by the siren's moan
I wake and the clock rhythms on
tick tock wail
tick tock wail
and the heart of urban man
beats ever faster.
Breakfast and engines that howl at the grass
and rage at poor leaves for falling haphazard
and trucks that impatiently
eighteen wheel their way
to someplace important
and mindlessly rattle my cereal bowl.
While the red winged blackbird opens his mute mouth
for his song is lost
to the coffee bean grinder
and the morning is lost to the din.
Jack hammer me a love song
car alarm me a poem
power tool me a story
while horns for fogs and cars and all clear
sound byte me a picture with no place for Gabriel
his sweet notes redundant.
And out by the airport a tinkling church bell
is bullied by brute behemoth
who runs screaming to mock the innocent air
. . . and leaps
While the heart of urban man beats even faster.
We Are But Remnants
18" x 24"
acrylic / canvas
From a large grey bolt of cloth we flew
barely knowing how
we worked the tailor's scissors.
In pale yellowed locked door room,
unwittingly we found
courage to pick the lock
as unkissed lips
whispered their farewells
to us who waved our
frayed and severed tendrils
to the cold , source of commonplace .
There were many panic ridden hands
who tore
with compromising fingers
at our glorious remnants
to give us sober second thoughts,
they thought and sadly did believe.
But we had crossed too many frontiers
and thresholds
beveled quite against us
to wear the gray cap of the vanquished,
the tailor's trite, plebeian garments
. . . we were already free.
The Wheels on the Bus
18" x 24"
acrylic / canvas
Dwindling numbers at the bus stop
by the small roadside zoo
keep a broken smile as the dust settles slowly upon us.
Feet waiting and shuffling and kicking at stones
shared feelings of joy and last minute fears,
We're waiting for people who don't really like us,
a much better prospect than sitting alone
for we've all left our small rooms as brittle as candy
the sheet metal windows the walls of dark slate.
We will sing our pale anthem to the air thin and fragile
once aboard with new friends connected and whole
and we'll grin somewhat careless in the escalating silence
to the terminal... while the wheels on the bus go around.
When I Was Young and Sang in Trees
(Sold)
When I was young and sang in trees
on summer nights by the moon's warm breeze
Italian songs of love and death
'neath the night's soft canopy and starry
breath.
My voice was fearless, sweet and glad
confidence in life I had
that one day on the stage I'd sing,
these unaffected notes I'd bring.
They'd sit enraptured , neck hair raised
and know that at a new star gazed......
But time like a thief, a thief in the night
removed that voice and hope took flight.
Was I ever that good? Was there ever a chance?
Was I seduced by a midsummer trance?
by the moon's warm breath, the night's starry breeze?
when I was young and sang in trees.
Within the Garden
18" x 24"
acrylic / canvas
He may have just stepped over the wall
leeward of the windswept trees,
down the path that has always been there,
past the white house
with the sad woman window
and the stone dyke where I hid a coin.
Perhaps he took up with the fishers
and hauls in nets with shimmering catch,
heartily laughs with the voice of a crewman,
casting a backwards glance towards me
over indifferent eyes of fish
which reflect the scudding clouds.
I hope he is a lighthouse keeper
his steady light might pierce the darkness
safe within a sacred duty
a wild place where the land and ocean
contend below the spray blown howl
down the coast where the accent changes.
Or beside the sheep who tell no secrets
he may have walked one summer morn
a last and lonely walk to bird song
the lark's small busy high sky lilt
making all his thoughts remember
the time he spent within the garden.
The Young Philosophers
18" x 24"
acrylic / canvas
"It is as if . . . yet wait . . . but how
if only . . . and now surely
. . . The architecture of the mind
is built by . . . now I disagree
. . . The soul is it . . . I think !"
And so they drone in front of stars
just older than themselves.
Young hearts confronting wisdom's brood
the whys . . . the wheres . . . the hows.
And on their knees no grass stains found
as they stand around
in big men's clothes
and forsake the kite on cloudy wind
while nestling up to theories.
"Downwind of love lies reason . . . !
. . . Now I must protest . . .
. . . It is our only means . . .
But random chance . . . Explain to me . . . !"
And on they drone in big men's clothes
with no grass stains on their knees.