Posts Tagged ‘special places’

color me green

Thursday, February 3rd, 2011

Green, green, green, green, green
Close your eyes, green, green,
I mean it, close your eyes and just see
green — green, green.

Green, green, brown, red green, green
green, brown, brown, red, green green,
evergreen trees, green, green, brown,
green, brown, red, black, white, gray,
green, grey, flowing creek, rushing water,
green, green, green, brown, red, black, white,
green, green, green, brown, red, black, white,
green, green, brown, red, black, white,

green, green, brown, red, black, white,
blue, green, green, brown, red, black, white,
blue, blue, green, green, brown, red, black, white,
blue, green, green, blue, brown, red, blue, white,
pitter, patter, blue, gray, white, gray, green, green
rain sprinkles everything, gray, green, blue, white
green, green, green, green

Breathe deeply, blue-green, blue-green, gray
white now red, orange, yellow, red, red, red,
brown, red, brown, green, red, brown,
as the bear devours your leg, red, red, brown on green.

We are always [green] surprised by what we [green] don’t expect.
So be ready for the [green] uninvited and serve them your best
green, green, red, brown and black, black, always black
— and blue, blue, blue. Boo-hoo. Woo-hoo. Blue, blue.

Green.

fore

Wednesday, January 27th, 2010

Hooligans and flies flit about
and wonder at the color and size
of things that float above them
not knowing why or if it even matters.

Flowers and cars careen
in colors bent on swinging
while puffs of flour and sand
melt into the gathering dusk.

“Its time for lunch” said one
while another shouted “dinner!”
Who knows what may come up
after a breakfast of leaves.

If the podium of ranting
carries the font of knowledge
into the hearts and hearses
that surround our halls

Its high time that someone salutes
and bids welcome to the grunt
that heralds the fainting of the shrewd
in the temple of the curiously sane.

But why not wonder at the light
that passes over the soft hills and shelves
that hide the pleasant from the cool
and picks up the shadows of sins

Held deeply within the folds of tissue
that surround our nest and issue forth
a scent of cinnamon and creosote
on the greening of the sands.

Come forth now into the darkness
and feel the cold wind of rebirth
and wallow in its soft and comforting
blast of invigorating fire. Hold forth.

For the fourth time, come forward
and force the foreskin formulary of flint
into a furnace of fuming fallacy
and fall into glorious failure faintly.

ziggurat gas pump

Monday, January 11th, 2010

The ziggurat gas pump is lit by tangerine light.
My desert refuge is coming alive again tonight .

The tall dancing frog and the small singing dog
are partying heartily with that black rumbling hog.

White legs in shorts without clatter or din
are sitting on the corner shoveling stuffed pizza in.

Talavera birds,
not uttering words
watch
in expectation just waiting for me to carve a craven notch.

But the sky like a painting licked into bible-picture might,
is setting the stage for a wonder-filled night.

I’ll settle my head
down into our bed
and let the glow of eerily pink light
start the show that erupts in my head each night.

Now that ziggurat gas pump in the tangerine light
has become words that pass on this comforting sight —

good night.

just another day

Tuesday, July 28th, 2009

The trees and bushes are still standing watch
and the air is humid and warm as the morning blooms
into a Tuesday and the paints are drying while the pencils
await a touch to turn them into lines that may define a shape or direction

as the phone rings with the voice of a maker of pictures
and other things like wings made at night moves my way to exchange
some dollars for some carefully honed glass with which to capture
the light and colors of his days and nights

and that glass carries with it the memories of music
played on stages under lights and through the ears of friends
now passed into their own light leaving only colored reflections
in the texture of this town where we were born

into a time when possessions had different meanings
and now in their time worn way show just how futile it all is
when their perfectly maintained gloss and fit
only saddens their removal from a former stage

where all sorts of human drama played out in painful ways
weaving into some as pain, others as pleasure
but they are still there waiting to be dealt with and I say
pitch the stuff out into the snow and sun so it too can return to its elements

for that is where we all belong anyway and how often we forget
that that is all there is and that is always where we are at
despite our illusions to the contrary and no matter
how hard we try to maintain that false reflection of duality

as we dance as one in our entirety we can at least take our own steps
as they fit with those of the ground and others taking their own
flash as fire and blasting icy light glaring white devouring
our many hues that are trying to pull the whole thing into the darkness.

It always comes down to this realization as those trees stand watch
and the rocks and soil continue on their paths in this arena
of plate tectonics and subterranean melt while the otherly charged molecules
just keep doing their thing smiling and breathing and falling apart.

just be cuz

Sunday, July 12th, 2009

Yesterday I spent some time with some cousins
whom I hadn’t seen in years and it was on the occasion
of their dear mother’s death – someone else I hadn’t seen enough
and wish I had since she was so very very sweet and warm

love never fails to amaze me with its power to transcend
just about everything – make that everything.

I can see my aunt and uncle’s love in my cousins
and want to get to know all of them better – I have
sixteen or seventeen of them all totaled – from my mother’s
five siblings and wonder why I feel so compelled

Maybe its curiosity about what we have in common
and what our differences are and what might we have done
if living in a more tribal culture where we might be
more interdependent and what part of the larger
tribal milieu we might have filled with our talents

or maybe what we might yet do in some fashion
to enhance each other’s dreams and aspirations
before its too late

Our culture and upbringing has made us independent
and that has been a real asset and also perhaps
a limitation in its division as we have moved on
figuratively and geographically to separate lives
from our siblings and friends that leaves a cloudy hole

Might there be a missing piece we’ve yet to discover?

In the last ten years I’ve reconnected with several other cousins
and it feels good to just now they are there living their lives
in so many different ways

Yesterday on discussing a cousin’s reunion involving us all
my long lost (to me anyway) cousin Sandra replied ” Just be cuz”
and it hit a chord with me since word play is something
I love and often obsess over for fun – just because –

justBcuz – I love it!

A pun, a name for a movement, a rallying cry to our clan
Let’s reunite just for fun and see what we learn of life and love
and what we’ve missed of each other over these years
since we once ran around on Christmas eve’s and thanksgivings past
with our Grandma and Grandpa Stiles looking on.

We’ve spread far and wide and our means may vary
but I think we can find a place and time to meet that will work for us all
where we might blow off the dust of time and circumstance
to discover who we are and what our commons bonds have
to offer

Just because.

andirons

Sunday, July 5th, 2009

Last evening I noticed the andirons standing guard
the same kind that as a child I thought were called
end-irons since they were for the ends of the wood to rest on
guarding the entrance to our fireplace which is rarely
used since we have converted our basement into
an apartment and the smoke from our fireplace
when arising from the chimney often goes back down
the chimney for the basement fireplace, getting a smoky
smell in that apartment even though the fireplace down there
has been boarded over so tenants won’t do anything stupid
that might lead to our house burning down or something.

There appeared to be nothing of much value to be guarding
except for the rusty and ash-covered cast iron fire basket
and the set of mismatched tools that include a small shovel
and a poker and a wooden stick with a burnt end that have stoked
many a fire when we used to use it for evening warmth and smores
during some of our winter dinners on the floor in front of it
which no longer occur since we now spend our winters in the desert
deserting our home for the sun and light we now crave and feel
like we can’t live without in the short days and damp drizzle
of the great northwest where I was born and my friends dying
and my children and theirs are growing and blooming.

The crooked screen over that fireplace shows signs of its
fifty-five years of service and bumbling repair attempts of its
original owner armed with some gold spray paint trying to cover
their accidental smoke stains of carbons black and in the process
over-spraying onto the roman bricks that make up its mid-century
modern face in spite of the fact that it is now so well guarded
by those andirons behind it in its gaping mouth that seems
to be hungry for a fire and so I guess somewhere there must be a fire
seeking this fireplace and its ancillary woodpile that lie rotting
just outside our garage awaiting some future winter residency
in need of its warming glow and friendly smells again.

That little guarding scene is still in exactly the same place
this morning as it was last evening and the last one hundred or so
evenings and days before that gathering dust and standing tall
in its tarnished but still brassy elegance with patina and expression
in its random disarray and pitiful attempts at appearing foreboding
or even secure laughably as it reigns over the multi-colored hearth
on this warming summer day as I recall last night’s dreams of a trip
with my son into some beautifully abstract environs where I awoke
laughing at his finding and mentioning to me a sign that offered
most likely to those willing to endure some sort of sales pitch
a temporary dinner for two which brought to mind a funny sight.

While the andirons were only barely visible in the early light
I rolled over in bed to continue dreaming and see a meticulously
decorated custom old Nissan Z-car with a small diameter roll-cage
and wonderful vinyl padding everywhere all covered with black & white
drawings of skeletal figures done in a mosaic of images so that
a skull was made up of tiny skulls all painted white on a black ground
and obviously topped with a glossy clear coat to compliment similar
imagery on the upholstered elements and this was all adjoined by
just the right amounts of red details to make it truly a work of art
not just another car on the road to some sort of ruin though they all
will end up in a scrap heap one day which is more than we get.

Our fireplace is also quite similar to that in a recently passed friend’s
home she inherited from her parents who were the original owners
and who also left their 1970 Chrysler Newport with only sixty-thousand
miles on it and which has been garaged since new and only used
by her mom to go shopping since her dad had died just after its purchase
which seems to be just another example of the futility of material pursuits
and the collection of so much stuff as we eerily go through her belongings
scavenging what we might find useful in some way but which all reminds
me of her and the nice visits we had just before her death wishing
we had made contact years earlier but time is so insistent in its path
and I can feel her spirit happier than most of her life was and its good.

So maybe those andirons both ours and our late friend’s are guarding
a lot of value in that they are a link to past events and fires and portend
not only future combustion of wood and paper wadded to start it
but are sentinels in the road to discovery that goes beyond the veil
to reveal connections that don’t require a physical presence to be felt
as if the fire was engulfing us in its warmth and actually was us
in a totality that holds everyone in the requisitely mysterious unity
with our individual characteristics intact enjoying the differences
and contrasts as they continue recycling the energy that is what we often
call love and celebrate the realization the we are those andirons all
as well as the ignition and combustibles and warmth in cold brass or flesh.

my studio in june

Wednesday, June 24th, 2009

No view but the walls around me
covered with my art and memorabilia
and work tables with tools and stuff
shrapnel from my life as a painter

The florescent tubes and software
folders anoint the drawing board with
lupes and tire gauges as the headphones
act as sentry on the taboret with a wrench

bicycles and oil-filled heaters challenge
the heat gun holder for space against
the four-by-four supported table that serves
as photo shooting tableau with its green carpet

covering littered with slides from past lives
waiting to be reignited into fires of inspiration
as the well-aged oil paints await yet another
day in the sun of creativity as my mind races on

coming up with projects that make me crave waking
every morning to see what I will end up focusing on
as my juices flow back and forth between pictures
and words and the physical and spiritual merge

into creations that make me wonder both at their
majesty and whether or not anyone will even care
whether they exist or not while I intend and desire
them to make a real difference in someone’s lives.

I’ve got a lot to look at here and the inspirations seem
unending as time slips by like a rocket seeing few of these dreams
realized, yet somehow, they are all coming together
in a syncopated collage of time, space and spirit.

morning noise

Wednesday, June 24th, 2009

The morning News should be called the morning Noise
it bangs away at the pane of my brain nearly shattering
my delicate thoughts that are wistfully floating in my waking
revery so essential to communing with the inner voice.

Do I really need to know what atrocities are going on
at this very moment as they are all part of a blanket woven
from strands of enmity since antiquity and shouted in all
languages the same and can only be countered by bliss

and balance through pain and anguish as we slowly evolve
knowing our path is upward is of utmost importance and
therefor the input of Noise should be limited to what is required
to maintain a background for wonder and love. Shhhhhh.

a prayer

Saturday, June 20th, 2009

So spirit that lingers, show me your stuff
that I might find some new wisdom to weave
into the growing garment that still floats
just above my skin the one I will wear

in the eternity that has always been
and upon which I have been projecting
my limited view of things and places
seemingly filled with activities and meanings

Show me the bursts of real energy
rather than these mundanely vibrant colors
and raucous sounds that I think have thrilled
my soul but have only tickled my skin

Set me free from my self-constructed confines
and if possible let me soar with one foot
while writing with the other to pass around
the vision that has some real essence

besides mere words and pictures
but, yeh – I know, gotta have those words and pics
to trigger our meager blindered senses
into a place where they can but sample such wonders

So, again, have I blessed this place?
Have I allowed the flow to touch down
and will it visit again to enliven the moment
and let me pass it along with knowing?

Thank you for the showering of warmth
that can feel like bliss and humble me with presence
felt as a ringing roundness in my simple being
all I can do is be, all I can be is me — and we.

51 buick

Monday, May 25th, 2009

t was 1951 and Grandpa Hansen
had gotten a brand new Buick.
A Roadmaster sedan in two-tone
Light Blue and White.

Two-tone cars were a new thing
and this one was glossy since he had ordered
the Porcelanized version, it glistened
both paint and heavy chrome

It has an antenna that was above
the broad one-piece windshield with
a handle inside to turn it up over the roof
or down over the windshield.

Inside were special seat covers to preserve
the new upholstery underneath, all blue
and the dashboard was full of chrome
grill-work and knobs and gauges and

a radio on which we would hear Jack Benny
and Amos & Andy on Sunday drives
while Grandpa enjoyed a cigar, with Dad and I
in front, mom, Carolyn and Grandmother in back