Friday, December 30, 2005
Sunday, December 18, 2005
Awaken to the silence of a snow song
gentle hush on the wind still speaking
of inches in drift and horizontal painting.
White with winter
and dreams on thunder hill.
Still go there in the back seat of child sleep.
Sledding to the rumble.
And I haven't even looked out the window.
Sun still sleeps in clouds of inspiration.
I'll don my smock and easel.
Paint in muted shades for the cardinal
on pine bough yet to light.
Water color before its frost blooms to crystal.
And I haven't even opened my eyes.
An artist friend works in wood and steel. His sculptures are more than decorative. They take me into rich worlds of cultures past. Like being introduced to new friends.
Face of ages
wrought in steel
speak to me of where you've been.
What's the vision in your mind?
The fire in your eyes?
I've seen the work of many hands,
but yours beyond all earthly time
is wrought in steel to feel new joy.
Face of ages wrought in steel
speak to me of glee.
Sunday, December 11, 2005
spring tree bounceI love trees in all seasons. They move in wondrous ways. Move me to poetic inspiration (see also Tree Climbing), and all who live—to breath.
and dance from season to season
your roots do not hold you
to any law but love
We don't live without 'em.
Saturday, December 10, 2005
April's bounce by coiled step to crystal pool,
collected clear and running cool
these mountain spirits
freed in each day's thaw.
Quenching thirst of months to come.
September trees release their leaves
to join the nuts and seeds
Autumn's garden harvest
collect in baskets grateful hold
the heart of love's projection.
We are protected now.
Many meanings—Spring and Fall
light the solid state of Winter
and Summer's sweet recall
of heat and flavor—
year's end, midyear.
Even snowmen cheer.
Saturday, December 03, 2005
and the poses are a thousand hidden words.
Old Photo Stories
Shoebox or album.
Reach for the past.
Open a cover
to the scent of a pungent journey,
rich in the plot of lost years.
How long was the story
held captive by old photo-faces,
that have smiled since boyhood,
or the last child of Rose?
Bound in a book, or this box--
what sighs now
released in the turning,
Plow through glossy
dreams in cream color,
satin black and white.
Standing too long in this pose--
rest and let a frown refresh you.
Sleep in your tomorrows' other blessings.
Don't hide the lines
caught in a flash
and held now decades
for later that night,
or next morning's light.
Kodak never said it this way--
yet never told a lie.
Looking through a book of years,
a box of gray and black and white,
what color the memories of time?
And other cousins calling? Grampa.
Never mind the missing years,
retelling stories new--
other people's stories
from the dust of this collection
over-exposed and under-protected.
And never seen till now.
ak 3/29/01 (rev. 4/1/01)
Sound of light
On ether stage
This starlit night.
Then, gentle down.
Rest in flight,
One freely chose.
For morning drift,
And shape the spheres
Light spirits lift.
In a starlit plan—
A spirit form—
ak ~1993 winter (rev. 2/28/01)
Life is new through young eyes
hard work at play by day
in battle and truce with the lion,
that ends under cover of bed
time now to dream a new answer
while the question still forms in my head
lion, are you tame? are you wild?
take up the sword of tomorrow
all through the eyes of a child.
What love is it that chooses heart’s direction?
Talent never learned this life
But lived like bees to honeysuckle’s center
To one an awkward duty
Another makes it dance.
Are we not followed on the road to choose
By choices other than our own?
Our map in math or science knows
Growing rose and radish
An easy work of art.
Start to feel connection with life and tools of craft
In school what luck would have the leaders
Follow heart and soul?
There is more than light and scent
To growing rose.
1/15/04 (rev. 12/3/05)
Before the sunset was the quality of sky
behind the willows
Winter blue and white and gray
Maybe it’ll snow to soften the fall of skater's elbow.
And wind to drift in -- full length.
Blessed the moments of quarter before the sunset.
Every minute a new hue of love.
Silver lining. Steel clouds. Liquid gold.
Tropical fruit of looming cumulus.
And distant mountain blues—
All turning day to night
In strips of light behind the willows
And western striping of the sky.
Best of season’s blessings all winter
Never really happened yet.
Sunset tonight behind the willows.
As I wait. What’s next?
Maybe it will snow.
A call on the phone.
Puppy licks. Kitty light.
Giving life to stone.
Rock painter’s hand of God
never works alone.
Color brush. Lighting smiles.
Giving life to stone.
Calls the neighbor’s dog off jumping
dreams of Billy smiles
puppies of the litter’s best behaving set
of love curls in a yip and wag and lick
till puddles feet forgetting
all the rules of tidy.
Mighty little smiles of brown eye hugs
and soft or not
till another Christmas
puppies love of Billy’s dream.
Spring clouds rain.
Sun spots the frog pond.
And the death of an oak…
It calls from the center of the earth,
The far side of the moon.
Sunflowers stand tall and sing—
All to the smile of your eyes.
Today sees me take the next wave
In the breath of eternity.
Your smile never dies.
Touch with fingertip anticipation.
Sphere. Cool. Alive!
Like this planet of oceans.
Its scent drawn from
blossoms in the grove
of tropical elation.
Sight without even seeing
its bright sun.
shining on Jupiter.
O taste. I tear and pull
with lust of lips
and tooth dripping.
Sound waves heard as it
gives up its riches.
to tongue and crush.
Do you care to share
this winter morning treat
I’ve fished a thousand streams and once
I caught a trout by hand.
Twelve inches is a foot of Dad’s.
Twice the length of mine. With little hands.
How could it slip away? And caught again
and tossed to shore.
Sandy bank and grass and basket
for the proud walk home to Mom
and run the walking trail
with sister’s love of brother.
Time for dinner in a pan.
Breaded with corn batter.
Does it matter? Should we?
Does the trickle of the stream that
feeds the river run to sea?
Are we free as children?
Are we Dad and Mom?
The river always runs to sea
since the trout I caught by hand
and brought by basket to the pan
and sister’s love of brother.
Yes we can.
The smell of melting wax
or wood burning fireplace
brings me back to Mom’s warm kitchen
in the winter when I was a boy.
Today eggnog or hot chocolate
helps me feel the joy.
Newspapered table mottled top
colored with translucent spots.
From shoebox and coffee cans
to grab jam-seal paraffin,
broken crayons and string
we’ve collected since spring.
Mom is at the melting pot
pushed back on the Monarch top.
Bernie stoked the stove with
some pitch-wood kindling sticks
and it’s still too hot.
Dad is back from town—
he sold a sow or wiener pig.
We melt, and dip, and dot with
the colors of Crayola’s rainbow—
a child’s scent of heaven outside school.
Rosie hangs a gang of wicks
and waxen shafts to dry and dip again.
I peel off a thimble made
by dabbing thumb with melted wax.
Ouch! There goes the cat
to scatter shoebox lid of ships—
the shells of walnut halves
half-filled with wax.
Help to rig the toothpick masts
and spars of pirate's fleet.
Then sheeted with feahered sails
or set with cancelled stamps.
Two cents, five cents—
what expense to sail the tub
or skid the frozen puddles
by the back porch step.
Christmas candle making
when I was five. The scent
of color crayons, melting wax,
and a fleet of ships,
all a part of this good time
in kitchen warm and winter home.
Some day I’d help
Mary and Jerome like that,
if they’d hold the cat.
ak 11/01, rev. 12/05