listen to earth’s language

perhaps if we all spoke in simple language
rather than tongues
if we gazed with eyes
rather than expectations
what if we sang together with voices clear
frenzied rants quietly melting
if we opened ourselves to listening
blocking programmed retorts
this season
imposes upon us
the choice of reflection
the challenge of change
in ourselves
we can create magic
genuine magic
a mystical presence of benevolence
spirited on by a collective desire
to wrap our world in peace
the simplest of gifts
difficult to embrace
yet within our grasp
all we need do
is listen to earth’s language
life

Baby Elf

Baby Elf

this holiday let monsters be of fantasy only

crouching behind windshields
squatting behind screens
societal svengalis lurk
unruly wild things pacing clear enclosures
bitter birds choosing not to fly
limitations evaporate
when powered on by false gods
emotional anchors become
looming weights of entitlement
hands grip wheels
steering by fabricated courage

verbal appetites satiated by barbs
served beneath craving fingertips

manipulation expands
a
cracked sea sponge tossed into a violent whirlpool
bytes of malice more sour than sun-baked wine
flow over rims of digital goblets
what happens to some
what happens to us

communicating without the skin of our souls
the flesh of our humility
the forbearance of our hearts
what will become of us
when traveling forward
without
the divinity of pure movement
and humble earth beneath our feet

as this holiday season fast approaches
may we remember
humanity dwells inside
each and every one of us
let monsters be made of fantasy only

Holidragon

Holidragon

inspired this weekend while returning my daughter to college-many crazed people driving the highways-
many crazed drivers on cell phones rushing to cybershop

did I mention

did I mention
my son is driving now
I watch him
everyday
from behind
he appears
every inch
a man
his shoulders
only slightly less wide
than the door frame
muscles blowing out
voice sincerely deep
yet
he is not a man
still closer to 15 than adulthood
joining gaggles of generation teXters
spreading their rubber wings
upon an overburdened world saturated with flashing macadam, blinding halogens
and
complicated souls perpetually racing their personal calendars
his young supple mind must remain
singular of purpose
leave all those fresh happenings
curbside
before leaping behind the velveteen wheel
yanking its quadruplet of synchronized tires into the fray
may each and every casual roll
be from point a to point b only
not a flippant roll of the dice
he is not a gambler
neither am I
this is the season
for believers
we are
both the same
singular of purpose
when singing and shining
in this glorious cacophony
of colored bells
and bursting evergreen stars

for those who celebrate this warm day of family and friends gathering (mostly for food;)) and collecting in peace, Happy Thanksgiving
for those who don’t, have a wonderful weekend – thank you
squanto-with-editshonoring all who have gone before

it is

well
it is
done
a book
mine
thin and monochromatic
beast and verse
love and madness
what we do to ourselves
what I’ve held
and continue
to store in my own heart
through personal trials
and gentle outward observations
it is
done
a book
for my children
something to hold in their hands
one day
when they need my heart nearby
I might be here
when they seek my heart
but if I’m not
it is

I’m of the old school belief if something is worthwhile eventually it will find its way, not a wonderful sales person for my own work, I must make an effort especially for my talented and generous friends and family who helped me realize this first publishing dream, so my friends, my very first illustrated book of free verse (some call them poems, my father believes poetry should rhyme – these verses do not) is available on my booksite – loveofthemonster.com
cover-image-jpegI thank you – how very exciting it is this morning to write this as the first white of winter presses against my studio door:)

emerald velvet

silver hair once black as Christmas coal
hunger for learning, for creating
replaced with too many frail specters
her soul is tired
worn through and greyed
melting like roadside snow
her mind
stuffed to the stocking toe
with brave thoughts of death
and fears of dying
God, if she could remember holiday celebrations
twirling on star-dusted dance floors
toasting wishes into white-gold bubbles
floating by northern stars
rickety painted sleighs guided with frolicking white ponies
whose happy hooves were unaware of winter’s brittle bite
I shall drape her long emerald velvet dress
across the lumpy sunken bed
perhaps her dimming eyes
will once more breathe glittering light
lips long ago sharp and full
will sing a small song of renewed hope
in these last twilight days of frosted window panes
Karoleposted this painting several times, I painted this for my mother-in-law
who once sewed a long emerald dress for the holidays

enter title here

it is very quiet
the realization of a deep loneliness
apparent in the sound-sucking carpet
in the dim light of way past midnight

acceptance of what I need
not always found in my words
or my forms
something undeniable
presses my mind ever forward
forces my fingers to choke pencils
don’t always know which way
to
shove the compass needle
magnetic attractions don’t always apply

searching for something to shove inside the attic
to store inside my soul
maybe

treasures for the grand kids to find
hope for my older self to embrace
there is the first effort
before the wheels start spinning again
what now?

enter title here

Baby Elf

Baby Elf

my book is nearly ready to be launched into space, my mind is more nervous than my hands

this is a time of us

this is a time of us
what of us
define who we are
can we do this
we can do this
move forward
from past
into future
wearing the hide of civilization
pumping the heart human
stowed tolerance
like discovering fire
hidden deep
dig down
rise up
can we do this
we can do this
gentle existence
is it not possible
it is possible
wearing the skin of humanity
the hide of civilization
without these trappings
naked bones
unable to survive
none can
none will
this is a time of us

SImon Says Peace

Simon Says Peace

earth tomorrow

 back ally voices rise up from dark corners
let the cave of swallows empty

sun breached chords stroking notes
melodies mottle across the landscape
unclear to deaf ears
voices can scissor the future
dense green forests cut into ribbons
let not the rusted refuse stain the plains
rock the mountains
there can be no life without
water
let it shape new rivers
feed the world
blacken the soil to harvest full

tomorrow, tomorrow
earth
tomorrow
babydetail from a piece painted long ago on canvas sheet

something about

over
under on top
this is it
that was now
wasn’t it
wasn’t it
spiraling
pack pack pack the fucking brain
round the square corners

jump the cycle
break the loop
think outside the box
that was 1990
wasn’t it
business speak
can’t speak anymore
much of anything
who was that glossy chick with the shiny shoes and the matte business card
baby spit on the shoulder
now dirty sports uniforms

something about files or writing
art no it was art
crap family coming this weekend no next
was there a party I was planning for someone I love
it’s the school thing he needs to be at she told you
what? what was I doing

oh yeah
the studio I was filing my art
away for something
wait I’m in the wrong room

where the hell did I put my studio
there’s no food in the fucking fridge
social-ing on social media isn’t always
walk yourself Mojo
I ain’t got the time
I gotta go drop some books by airplane
purple roomI consider my childhood bedroom – my first studio. There at the table is where I pretended to be, Kolchak the Night Stalker. The wall “rainbow” was my first mural. I’d give anything to reclaim my original Breyer horses there on the shelf. My Clairol makeup mirror – geez, I’ll never get that close again to a magnifying mirror with lights, and my little budgie hanging in his little cage – I often let him fly around.

Please pardon, but I’ve been back cleaning old posts. Many I’m not too pleased with, so I’m reworking these older writing pieces while the brain currently in my possession is on vacation.

when you are a storm

he will be there when you aren’t
he will know when you don’t
he will want you when you’re broken
he will stand near when you’ve fallen
he will make room for your art
he will stay when you leave
he will be there when you return
he will sing when you’re hoarse
he will befriend your inner foes
he will be calm
when you are a storm

Who

Who