He watched the leaf drop beneath the horizon and gently light on the ground. He watched as it became a memory, lingering there in the blooming sunrise.
one step closer
to revelation . . .
a cherry tree blossoms
First published in Under the Basho, November 2018
Sometimes I just sit and stare at an empty page. Nothing comes so I decide to write about nothing which often turns into something. Let’s see. My life’s journey has been so convoluted that I can’t even put it into chronological order anymore. Sure, I have memories but they’re all tangled up like a ball of yarn subjected to a cat. It’s gotten so bad, I can’t remember if yesterday was really the day before or the day before that. Tossed around in childhood, I turned and became a wanderer. I’ve long since given up on putting it all together. Better a painting by Jack the Dripper than an empty box of crayons. I doubt any historian will ever sort it out so let’s be frank . . . if you want a piece of me, you better get it now.
searching for buried treasure . . .
better ways to lose my mind
have not been found
I sometimes wake up feeling remorse. It usually diminishes fairly quickly but I wonder how I’ll feel tomorrow when I wake up and you’re still gone…
there are no postcards
in the mail…
autumn wind
I find myself standing at the corner of Walk and Don’t Walk, waiting in the glow of a streetlamp, the scantest hint of snowflakes floating down through its rays. I hear the sound of a vehicle approaching but it’s not the bus. Headlights drift by… taillights vanish into the night. Salt from the road crunches underfoot. The hint of a breeze chills my ears. I pull my hat down and turn up my collar. The lights change. Now I’m on the corner of Don’t Walk and Walk with no bus in sight. This is confusing. I start to walk.
a caterpillar
makes his way across the street…
progress takes time
Everyone’s heard about the Big Bad Wolf but he’s old now. His tail drags on the floor and his whiskers have turned grey. He’s constantly being picked on by little pigs while he sits idly in his rocking chair looking at pictures of wild boar in an old copy of National Geographic. His huff and puff can’t even open a door now. What’s amazing is that he still has a couple of teeth left. These give him a horrible toothache which the little pigs love to tease him about. Can’t eat pig with a toothache.
So there he sits, dreaming of better days, those days of chasing pigs and running from the woodsman. Just outside the door, there’s a patch of wolfbane. It would make a great salad but it’s hard to chew, he has an allergy, and it’s also hallucinogenic. Last time he ate some, he met a girl named Hood in the forest. The visions of her haunt him to this very day. So there he sits, flipping the pages and rocking gently to the strains of Sweet Caroline mixed with the dissonant oinking of carefree pigs.
murder is a sin…
laughter bears a resemblance
to salvation
the composer
pens his Prelude in D . . .
solar winds
Somewhere, deep in the shadows of his mind, Angelo sits with himself. In his weathered hands he holds a harp strung with strands of his hair. He peers into the void. The void echoes back its nothingness. The man turns his attention to the embers casting a pale glow at his feet and kicks them back to life. Sparks float into the deep emptiness. Content with the now-starry sky, he begins to massage the harp strings as if about to pluck a note. But, then, with a deep sigh, he rests the harp at his side.
A wandering muse steps from the shadows, a lost look on his face. Angelo isn’t sure what to make of him, but offers the muse a place by the fire and a bowl of vegetable stew. The muse stammers profusely about how he hasn’t eaten in days, but mostly that he hasn’t encountered a creative soul in months; his life force is nearly spent. “I am nourished by creation, you see.”
“I am nourished by inspiration,” Angelo replies. “Perhaps, you can help me out.”
“I have never tasted such flavorful soup,” the muse replies. “My mother had no imagination—she named me Joe—always the same bland broth. You seem quite creative. Perhaps, you can help me.“
They study each other’s faces silently in the glow of the fire. Angelo reaches for his harp; Joe begins to chant: one, two, three; one, two, three . . . the shadows begin to dance.
wings and pollen
in harmony with the winds
dancers and drifters
The beauty of art is that it offers the observer a pathway through their own imagination.
cherry tree
how many seasons
will I see you bloom
I splash my face
and fumble for a towel…
sleepy shadow
Staring into the mirror, I revisit my present self. Whiskers have returned. Wrinkles all seem in place. Hair still disappearing, a pondering man looks back at me. I grin shyly, recognizing him as the reflection I met in yesterday’s mirror. A calm overcomes me as I leave the old man to reflect, hoping he’ll be there tomorrow.
If I tell you the truth, you may find it messy. But art isn’t about being pretty. Its raison d’etre isn’t to be beautiful; rather, it is for providing the child inside with a haven from this often brutal and dark world. The stories are graphic. At the same time, they move us like dandelion seeds on the wind or rivers dissolving mountains. We find pain and joy there. They are so very different but, from the perspective of this artist, they are one and the same. Art is a celebration at a funeral.
the brush swirls . . .
each woman, man, and child,
a portrait
To hell with the dissertations, they are all cramped and withered. Art speaks! One need only listen. I’ve had this conversation before. Every participant has a different definition for it. My purpose is not to define but refine, to sculpt it into a bust for you to examine from your own vantage.
We all bring our own experiences to the show. This is how we interact with the art, preconceptions filling our minds, gently or abruptly disrupted by the artist. What does it mean? You tell me. It’s a product of yours and my imaginations. How can I know what you will take away?
sunset . . .
you see the orange sky
I see a blue heron
It would be a dreary world without art. Thankfully, humankind has been expressing its experience to the fullest since prehistoric times. We see the forces around us, the good and the evil, ask great questions, and find the beauty in simple things. We wage war and we wage war against the war. The atrocities will be remembered, the faces of the weary displayed. The colors on the wall will soothe us.
If there was only light, we would miss the darkness. Beauty is the words on the page, paint on the canvas, a face in the stone no matter the subject. Art is a moment captured. As that moment fleets away, the tale is retold for all to hear. Each moment recorded is a gift, a gift from a friend. Your friend, the artist, seeks to ease the pain, to bring light to the darkness, and share with you what it means to live.
a shock of wheat . . .
we become the story
we’re passing down
I’m in the dark, and I can’t sleep. Mom and Dad just broke up. My pillow’s all wet. The wind’s blowing the curtains and they look like ghosts. All I want to do is run into Grandma’s room and crawl in with her, but I can’t. There’s a monster under my bed.
bedtime stories…
imagining my way
through shadows
