Coloring Memory

If I ever have a son, 
I*ll tell him the sky was denim,
stone washed blue, a hand like suede.
An indelible image.

Light filtered through rustling leaves
like some delicate open fabric,
made lace shadows on the grass.

If there was rain
it arose without cause.
Clouds were auras around the sun.
Puddles were dazzling, liquid fire.
Along the water*s edge
purple irises never lost their graceful bearing.

You can call me muddy and confused.
If our stories diverge,
you can say I*m misremembering.

The day was turbid, brown.
An unfriendly wind bent
the line of blooms in different directions.

For years you pored over
the book of purposes only to conclude
that gray gloom entrenched that day
never to release its grip.

So be it.

Remembered or recast,
I*ll retain my belief in denim sky.

coin

Burning Bush (ah brush)

This image was painted entirely with Photoshop brushes and enhanced with Photoshop filters. Not to give technology ALL the credit, I did actually envision, design and execute. I rather like my end product.

Writing can be frustrating

Reverse Metaphors

I wake up in a white room
not a hospital
more like a page in a book
where I am the only line of text

I have no context
in which to place my observations:

there is cold
the smell of strawberries
and a light without any obvious source

If this is heaven I am disappointed
If it's hell I am unimpressed

Perhaps it's a dream
where the metaphors have been reversed

Somehow I've been turned into an inkblot
in someone else's Rorschach Test

and the dream is interpreting me

Grapes

Found

When the night is cool-

stars spangled against dark sky,

silence spread like arms

pulling you in,

a thread of memory

around your finger-

comfort is a small place,

just big enough to fit your day inside,

with no room for tomorrow

Turning

I don’t understand 

  the revolving door.

Moving, always moving

       in one place.

  There is comfort

in an open door,

       a closed door--

  knowing just where I stand,

one side or the other

       of somewhere.

  But here I turn

forgetting where I got in,

       unsure when to exit.

  Okay, I’m an idiot.

I find I’m transfixed

       by the man two slots

  ahead of me.

He is both fat and flimsy,

       held together 

  by a bow tie, a ghost

between sheets of glass.

       I can’t decide if I  should follow him

or if he is following me.

Still Life

Fat fountain

becomes tilted jug,

spills water turned 

to wine by evening light

across concrete tablecloth.

Glass towers are bottles sparkling 

with reflections.

Sphere of setting sun,

an unpeeled orange.

No hand disturbs

the scene where silence slithers

between dishes set

for one. From the window, 

landscape is still life.

Changing Lanes

In the express lane, I frantically

count items. Ten only, ten only.

If I have eleven, will the clerk notice?

Will she humiliate me, declare

a bunch of grapes, a thousand items?

Store’s so hot,

the guy ahead of me steams.

Behind me, a woman with a dozen eggs

(how many items is that?)

shifts a baby from hip to hip.

The kid reaches for my hair with sticky fingers.

Grapes, toilet paper, bread, milk and peanut butter.

Lean Cuisine, mayonnaise, head of lettuce.

Can of peas, can of beans, shampoo.

Eleven essentials. One extra item,

only one. Let go of my hair!

As the clerk calls me next,

I change lanes.

On the freeway,

trapped between a Toyota

and a semi, I squint 

at the exit sign 300  yards ahead.

Names of streets

are doing a hula in the hot, yellow haze.

I turn on my signal,

squeeze a inch forward,

sneak a glance at the driver

in the turquoise Corolla.

He plays I Don’t See You,

keeps edging forward.

---he wants to shift left,

                   I want to shift right---

this ought to be easy.

Eggs over easy, one wrong move

wrecks breakfast. I hold my breath,

change lanes.

Home. Alone. Haven from choices.

No question where to park

in a one car garage.

Microwave Alfredo, peas in a sauce pan,

sit down to Judge Judy

in the only good chair.

I know this routine, bless its sweet boredom.

Tension uncoils as I sip my iced tea.

I pick up the frame,

study your photo, crinkles of laughter

framing your eyes. 

A picture in winter, still tanned from summer,

hair turning two-tone, still darker than mine.

I stick out my tongue--

half in jest , half in earnest--

at the face and its challenge to all I hold dear.

What the hell, one more time.

I’m changing lanes.

Pears

Lemons

Apples

Fruits

A new series of art images

Green Eyes

Happy Passings

in the South

we always say someone has passed

it’s a much kinder phrase than death

as a child I always imagined

the deceased drifting by

passing us as a parade float might

we could stand and watch

them smile and wave

on their way out of our everyday world

that’s why we were dressed up

because it was a party and afterwards 

people brought cake to the house

my grandmother passed

and in time my parents too

took that Rose Parade journey

though by that time I no longer expected

passing to be an occasion of joy

even if we do wrap it in flowers

the pageantry of death is grim

no bright streamers or balloons,

no raucous music with drums

we dress somberly

we speak softly as if we are trying

to keep the secret of their death from them

most often it is raining

though I have no idea

why that should be true

I rather hope the parade starts on the other side

that someone is as happy 

to see them arrive

as we are sad to see them go

that they get their brass band

and the chance to ride 

in the crepe paper carriage

my childhood fantasy

never followed the procession

farther than my own field of vision

the march was all about me waving goodbye

so where the passing ended up

was a just great mystery

it still is

pastel graphic portrait