My photo
Poet, Artist and co-owner of Lasting Images Photography

Tuesday, November 23, 2010

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.

Saturday, November 20, 2010

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.

Tuesday, November 16, 2010

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

Friday, November 12, 2010


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


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.





A new series of art images

Saturday, November 06, 2010

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