April'sPassion
Spring mist drizzled
on boughs of bare orchards, and fields
that patiently wait for warming,
The hills guilded
with their ancient dreams of new wings.
Our hope revives
with the clear air and the drenched grass,
The tangled plain waits for fresh green,
April's passion,
a birthing of new songs to sing.
We wait beside
a flickering fire, faithful, sure
of seasons' cycles to repeat,
Our drab cocoons,
blooming with April's honeyed sun.
Spring tunes blossom
Pulse quickens with April's passion.
Antithesis of Abstract
Surreal
those vague impossibilities
arranged in such a way
as to convey the true process
of thought.
No machination..
the imagination freed
from alteration of contrived
intent. The collage
in this case incomplete.
Such wealth
of imagery in the stain..
all the qualities of dream,
biomorphic..
and yet concrete.
Art Final 101
What joy, those winter fields
where wheat will green the ground
in spring, Where corn
will lift its ears to catch the wind
and soy beans will wait
for harvest moon to ripen,
But now, frozen furrows
blankly bide their time,
Empty beneath an arching sky
and one old spreading tree,
gnarled and kingly
in its February dominion.
It sets the mind to wondering
at God’s artistry, what was he thinking?
Of contrast and of symmetry?
Of hues and tints that swirl
and blend, or did his canvas
bloom with pure necessity?
When he nourished wheat,
did he smell bread? Those
luscious loaves brown and steaming
from the oven, did he plan the hearth
prior to the seed, or did his creation
mother his invention.
How blank his canvas must have been
with nothing but the sky, the ocean,
and the empty fields, Perhaps it was
a sunny day, the sky a bright
cerulean, Perhaps he stood back
pondering the possibilities…
A splash of emerald green
for contrast, a hint of olive
for the shadow, did he apply the color
straight from the tube? From
titanium to burnt umber, not waiting
for it to dry?
How deftly he created leaves, perhaps
to satisfy the need for shade ? Was there
a manual spelling out the elemental order
of the final? Requirements of competency
with color and texture. A familiarity
with geometric design?
Or did he fill each spot with something
needed … Choose his colors somewhat
randomly, The picture once completed
was a harmony of elements that fulfilled
each other’s needs, The bread the art,
The art the seed.
The Tide Came In
campfires
guitars
fresh breath
of oceans
soft
on summer skin
the stars
your eyes
heat lightning
we were toe prints
in sand
Thoughts on an Old Rope Swing
They claim the trees,
the trunks, the limbs,
the shading leaves,
but who thinks of roots
set deep in time
and rich with history?
Just because they hefted rope
to make the swing,
does not mean
they can control the sway.
In arcing reach
into the blue of sky,
what lights the gold
of those flecked irises?
What faith?
What dreams denied?
What compromise?
In Flirtation with the Wind
The wind celebrates my smallness,
Engulfed in studied concentration, I lean
against the weathered porch rail
and consider the horizon, but the wind
will have none of it. In a mood to play,
it whistles past me like a teenage boy
exuberant with new hormones, then
doubles back again and ruffles my hair
with cool fingers. The trees
are watching me. They are well aware
of this playful breeze. They have felt its fingers
in their hair. They look at me with sympathy,
as if they already know
something I have yet to learn.
Astronomical Anomaly
Ivory, rose, cobalt,
The Northern Lights contest the stars;
The sky, replicating grass and blossoms
as if earth had become too promiscuous
for all except extinction... angels
long since gone to higher ground.
Sons born in Spring
seem stronger. That long season
of flowering no more than metaphor.
Earth also gives up her fruit...
in due time is reunited.
The axis is not fixed in space.
Precession
is the third discovered motion,
Dark comes quickest
on the Winter soltice,
Someday we'll celebrate
converging rays.
This Is Not A Love Song
I think of you
in sawdust
and wood shavings,
red cedar
and cherry,
You, in a carpenter's apron
with one of those flat pencils
behind your ear.
I think of you
with sandpaper
and beeswax
that hides in crevices
of heavenwood
and rock maple,
I think of you
touching the grain
and loving it
with your glance
I think
it might be nice
to be wood.
