How introverted poet/artists protest...
after a poem by Ono no Komachi too soon the bloom has slipped from the stem - a light lost over the deepening sill of evening and back and forth, the beads are slipped slowly down the thread while I wait with the rain
that absence hangs around, a lone note held - b-flat drifting long after the tables have emptied a blind man would have known to find a way away from you but fire makes us stupid and before this space was vacant it. was. on. fire. things are so much clearer when seen in d minor … Continue reading 2.20.2015
... when we're not watching...
snippets from the past few days the snowdrops have been stepped on by some unwary foot - they are closer now to mud than to sky - but the crocus persists and the daffodils are showing their greening tips I had to side-step several puddles of blood on the sidewalk outside the office one morning … Continue reading 2.12.2015
I was the kid who was forever bringing home strays or baby birds. Some I'd thrust upon neighbors (apparently I was hard to resist), some would hang around, and some unfortunately wouldn't make it. I stopped doing this when I hit about 12 years old. But then in high school, my friend called me with … Continue reading 2.9.2015
I've been pushing around paint for the past couple of days. If that sounds semi-aggressive to you, you'd be right. I've pulled out the cheap brushes and the cheap studio canvas and I've been just relishing the chaos. "Inner Chaos, meet Outer Chaos. I'm sure you'll get along just fine." Most people looking at what … Continue reading 2.8.2015
Some broken things, in the right light, still shine. And in a perfect wind, the fragmentary might fly. But mostly we forget this and gather too closely the sharp edges to our chest - seeking solace in those pieces that are left.
“Happiness, not in another place but this place...not for another hour, but this hour.” --Walt Whitman
bare feet on the damp boards of the rain-soaked porch I try counting how many cigarettes are left not in the packs between us, leaning on the rail but in moments left to us in this sacred space where we learned the measure of our lips and the direct relation of hands to laughter no … Continue reading counting cigarettes