Musings
Writings from my first public reading at Art on Main on September 8th . . .
ORANGE
Sour, pungent, squirting orange.
Orange in a glass bowl
on the kitchen table
bathed in sunlight.
"Orange you glad you're not a banana?", a funny joke that makes the 5-year old me giggle.
Dimpled skin, smooth against my cheek,
cupped in my hands,
turning, turning, caressing the palm-sized orb.
Orange is the hunter's hat
I wear on my evening walks,
or dawn excursions around the Village.
My fluorescent head beaming my coordinants
to passing cars and dogs on leashes
so as to avoid those crashes, those accidents, those wrecks at sea.
A lighthouse guiding me home.
Sour, pungent, squirting orange.
Orange in a glass bowl
on the kitchen table
bathed in sunlight.
"Orange you glad you're not a banana?", a funny joke that makes the 5-year old me giggle.
Dimpled skin, smooth against my cheek,
cupped in my hands,
turning, turning, caressing the palm-sized orb.
Orange is the hunter's hat
I wear on my evening walks,
or dawn excursions around the Village.
My fluorescent head beaming my coordinants
to passing cars and dogs on leashes
so as to avoid those crashes, those accidents, those wrecks at sea.
A lighthouse guiding me home.
YELLOW
Color has an especially resonant quality for me. I respond to colors on a visceral level.
Yellow, for instance, is a color that has figured prominently in my work for over 15 years.
I don't consciously choose the tube of Hansa Medium when I'm painting.
I let my instinct take over when I'm creating. I trust my instincts.
It's hard not to be drawn to yellow . . . as we are drawn to the Sun.
Depending on its tone yellow can be showy or calming. Energizing or serene.
I like it for both of those features.
In my work yellow holds all my thoughts together.
It cradles my observations in a melted butter - nightlight - golden iconographic sort of way.
It's my legal pad of litanies.
It's the hope in my tunnel of fear.
The light that guides all my curiosities.
It's the chalice of honey I get to swim in when there is no other sweetness to be found.
Color has an especially resonant quality for me. I respond to colors on a visceral level.
Yellow, for instance, is a color that has figured prominently in my work for over 15 years.
I don't consciously choose the tube of Hansa Medium when I'm painting.
I let my instinct take over when I'm creating. I trust my instincts.
It's hard not to be drawn to yellow . . . as we are drawn to the Sun.
Depending on its tone yellow can be showy or calming. Energizing or serene.
I like it for both of those features.
In my work yellow holds all my thoughts together.
It cradles my observations in a melted butter - nightlight - golden iconographic sort of way.
It's my legal pad of litanies.
It's the hope in my tunnel of fear.
The light that guides all my curiosities.
It's the chalice of honey I get to swim in when there is no other sweetness to be found.
musings in the form of haiku
I am an explorer of the natural world. I observe, contemplate, and report my findings on paper and canvas in the form of imagery, line, color, and words. I take in the ever-changing world around me in quick and thoughtful snapshots; not unlike the haikus I pen regularly.
Both require quietness and alertness, the tools of one devoted to being present in life.
Both require quietness and alertness, the tools of one devoted to being present in life.
|
Carvings and scratches
punctuating yellow paint. Indelible code. |
Passion draws me in,
carrying me to the depths, to His unknown love. |
White space. Openness.
Room to wander aimlessly, finding my own way. |
Distracting myself.
This feeling out of control leaves me paralyzed. |
|
Cold, winter sunlight
reflects off studio walls -- warm, mottled spotlight. |
Golden cloud floating,
warming the bloodied dwellings. Healing all within. |
Lone red boat asea
in a bath of yellow light. Who captains this boat? |
I am lost in blue,
eating and drinking water as I fall, fall, fall. |
|
Tiny village-scapes
silent and without people -- no one to question. |
My fear is the wind.
It blows me and the boat away from the Man. |
Low, distant rumblings.
Thundering hooves in the sky. Darkness rolls through town. |
Dropping down under,
beneath the layers of smiles to the real matter. |
|
Delight in the small,
precious container of joy. Choosing excitement. |
Alone in the boat.
Afraid to follow the man -- shining from afar. |
Here's a little change of structure . . . my foray into the realm of Prose Poetry.
These are written with specific art pieces in mind that are currently in my studio.
These are written with specific art pieces in mind that are currently in my studio.
For Me?
I've contained my excitement
in this 2x3 inch container.
An ordinary container
holding an extraordinary gift.
He has built a home for me,
and all I can think is, "for me?"
My mind numbs at this most gracious offer.
So kind. So sincere.
I don't run away. I don't hide.
I just stand in the field looking at the house.
The tall grass fanning the sparks that have ignited in my aching heart.
I've contained my excitement
in this 2x3 inch container.
An ordinary container
holding an extraordinary gift.
He has built a home for me,
and all I can think is, "for me?"
My mind numbs at this most gracious offer.
So kind. So sincere.
I don't run away. I don't hide.
I just stand in the field looking at the house.
The tall grass fanning the sparks that have ignited in my aching heart.
The Big "S"
It's not good for anything --
this heavy hand on my bent back,
this wagging finger in my perplexed face,
this contusion on my tender soul,
the whispers I hear around the corner,
the berating tones in my alert ears,
the lies filling my anxious head.
It's not good for anything --
the shame that commands my attention
when I'm not looking.
It's not good for anything --
this heavy hand on my bent back,
this wagging finger in my perplexed face,
this contusion on my tender soul,
the whispers I hear around the corner,
the berating tones in my alert ears,
the lies filling my anxious head.
It's not good for anything --
the shame that commands my attention
when I'm not looking.
