how Art thou? Do you drink from the deep sink of inspired creations at an art museum, gallery, or maybe a street art fair on a street near you?sometimes?
Do you have something on one of your walls that only you could only fall for?
And, can’t help but stare?
It’s an important thing,dontcha think?
It has been from an early age for me.
I’m told that soon after I found my father who had killed himself (the Hemingway), while all the distraught adults who knew and loved him were off balance with emotional and practical adjustments (like selling the house and moving on)
One forgotten first son had got into several paint cans and expressed quite a colorful statement on the backside of the new house for sale.
I
I was perched  high for me
in a pinepitchtree
and waited out what I did
as I watched our house’s back side
where I painted from all the paint cans
stacked out back. Though very new plans
made us move away from that life.
Daddy had died and left that life.
Somebody and something could only cover
my work.

II

a french girl with hair from the girl in Breathless
was our art teacher that visited
Miss Blue’s 3rd grade class,
and liked my painting so much
she asked if she could take it
for a contest, or a book she was working on.
The blurry greens and blacks,
browns and blues,  was a ship deep in a storm.
I never saw it again but
somebody and something could only recover
my work.

 

 

still, tie me to the mast.

and

I must get the next good grasp
still, the next limb up
to see some.

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S T A L L

November 8, 2016

 

 

encased  in  impasse

I couldn’t even eye the passengers

just past my papers.

I wouldn’t watch what

my window offered:

small towns, and their lights,

or when slow-mo reflections night riders

riding inside  also swept by.

continual inspections of my work,

a spread display on a tray freed before me,

confirmed    my stall  is a lock still.

Y’see, yesterday’s night

I ran nine yellow lights,

& when my dreams weren’t just right…

I must decide to just ride.

.

.

.

.

.

.

(from 5 or 6 yrs back)

LOST/JUST

September 15, 2016

 

 

I

For now, awhile, I won’t let you pull me from the wreckage/

But, how you hold my hand, for both of us

Until the jaws of life  arrives/

Tho’ I’m not at a lost of words, I’m lost

In thought / “I’m lost”, I thought,

“And hiding from the hidden costs.”

.
         II.  Birdsong
.

I’ll dare to speak of sparrows

in shrapnel-filled WW I  battlefield winds,

in sharp scarlet dawns/

They’ll sing to find their kind

if they’ve  lived,

A song will find its way back,

between the  blood & budding daybreak.

.
   III.    J U S T
.

it could be/ a branch of a tree

perched at a high hill

would have a new bud  just

breaking through/ it would be just for you

and in time  a blossom.  You’d just

lift yr arm up/ and pull it down/ just in time

to drink it through

with yr deepest stealing breath.///

.

.

.

.

 

(from 2009)

In Nightstreams;

Characters cast into indecipherable scripts

All are strangers

To stare at, to starve for,

More, to promptly forget.

And Daydreams;

Live characters I’ve cared fiercely for

Live  too far enough I know  away in shadows

To re know/ to re love/ to re have

In this half life

I dreamt I opened a door onto a stranger

Her chest hurt, she showed her best she wasn’t in danger

I dreamt I waited to turn at a corner

Onto deep/ditched road, well before I could warn her

She lost control of her sportscar, four arcs

Into sleep/filled woods. unsteady long legs started

Out, hurt, and startled me to  dream move  to

Both strangers to tend to them, and love too

 

 

 

“I don’t stand this, no distancing..”

My soulfull chest and best intentions,

“O ..Further along & farther away”.

After it’s hurting time

It’s certain we’re down

From where we may

& nearer the day we’re done.

 

 

 

STILL FULL IN CAFTANS

February 15, 2016

MASSPHOTO

 

You need to know

You needn’t load these new cameras

It’s less necessary  this new era

I imagine now  new images

ejaculate pointblank to blank pages

Get-sets galore fill gallery folders

I heard Gatling gun wordings

for fun  function as captions

I read that the wind full in caftans

Help to heft up our boulders

.

still tho’

.

.

.

.

(FROM 4 or 5 yrs back/ dedicated to  DEVIANTART)

image: g.r.melvin/  http://namelessneed.deviantart.com/

HEY, ONE FACT/ CRAYON BOX

January 27, 2016

On a rough rainy predawn day

Back too tough on me maybe

Allowed  out back  fuh full moon

Is enshrouded.  dire.

Tho’ I’m too low on melatonin

Dawn, I’ll get  my crayon box

Out  &  rub out

A prairie fire

 

RESIGNEDLY

January 19, 2016

IMG_5013

 

 

He’d decidedly stacked shards

Of hardly shattered shiny silver glass

Resignedly, back bent on his knees on the dark

Street  boxing in the block he stayed on  for now

It started with you and I hurrying to catch a just waiting old bus. We’re loaded with bags & bundles. The archaic bus starts to move away then stops for us. We step up, an older unlikely looking driver, a short, shaggy grey haired woman in a smock-like shift is standing, away from the wheel, welcomes us. There’s room for us to sit on opposite sides of somehow open area in the center of this crowded bus. We let down our loads. The woman behind the seat i drape my coat on become obviously relieved when I re-drape it so it doesn’t drape into her space.

The train/bus moves and mainly flushed imagery outside the windows move by and demand my attention away from your smile & nod across the way/ you’re in a place just off the windowed panorama./ Soon I call over, “Look Dear, the city we love”/ & cimematically the chiaroscuro  of the lit skyline curves away.

Our clothes change to the clothes of a past time; cloth heavier, less well-fit, colors wrong./ Our bodies change./To strangers./ But we readily accept this subtle, bizarre shift. Images still slide by outside. After some time they stop. Our kindly driver is walking us up into an old shop of  older clothes. I undress completely to re-change, but the new clothes are newly ill-fitting. It seems that the proprietor of the place that it seems we’ve broken into is coming too quick so we rush to re-dress back into our less awkward costume. As odd, new bodies in old attire, we rush again back to our bus/train.

I’ve got a POV shot  to where you’re outside on a corner, and I’m inside without a word./ You’re queen-waving with a warmly resigned smile and I’m waving all the while./ Movement ramps up immensely./Leaning into windsweep/ Up on the front boat lip/ The oldest woman driver nods and calls over it all, something like (somehow) “Leap forth now!”

I swim in strong strokes. the waves are steady & uniform too.

I’m standing dressed but still looking like some one else,/ looking for someone else/ Others look unfamiliar/ face to face/ Then, someone I know,/ also bearing an older,different appearance/But I recognize her/ She calmly shows a shy smile./ Faces still proceed/ Like looking into a swirling dance room floor at a bustling Gala or ball./ I strain and strain again to re-see her./ But  awoke.

I’ve seeked and seen the one we lost this week.

 

A D R I F T

September 18, 2015

I swear  it’s Clara

I see clearly on the ceiling

Before I embark onto

Darkening  streams

To  a dream where Clara is nearer

.

I splash up, plop a step up,

&  Stand up on her shore

&  Stretch erect  on her far shore.