Monday, December 28, 2015

A Revolution of Sorts

Every crisis invades our psyche. We are constantly reminded that we are not safe, that at any moment tragedy will happen to even the best people. We watch as innocence is destroyed and we raise our children in the midst of the devastation.

We have a media that wants us to act and a government that wants us to leave them to spend as much as they need or create what ever law they deem necessary and we need to enjoy the Internet, follow the Kardashians and surf on the best new IPhone.

There is a constant invasion of our well being. The sky has been falling ever since 911- we’ve been waiting for the dollar to crash, warned to save gold, water, or even back in Y2K to buy a shelter, grow our own food.

All of this media frenzy does well for many making fortunes on the impending struggles we as Americans face. The media loves their high ratings as we sit foaming at the television afraid of the next impending disaster.

The unit that would usually give us strength and security has dissolved out before we even realized we needed them. The community, family, close friends all have been replaced with a collective, heavily connected community that has replaced true emotion and connection with hype and fanfare.

I think it is time we as Americans start to regroup-they’re not going to suggest it for us. They have better things they want from us like votes, ratings and control of everything from our health care to our energy consumption.

We need to start betting on us and our communities,  instead of the mouthpieces in Washington and those media yelling fire in our crowded elevator communities.

We need to start thinking for ourselves and our families. Turn off the television, start playing board games, the evil and tragedies may find us but all we do waiting for them is waste the precious time we have.

It’s time for a revolution of sorts, where we as people start taking responsibility for ourselves, our children, our schools. We need to start living smaller but enjoy more of what we have.

We need to start building a shield one that instead of protects our borders or our ozone layer, one that protect our families and our communities from fear, either justified or amplified by agenda.

We need to start living more significant lives and instead of worrying about changing the world, why don’t we try to change the little world that surrounds us, treat our neighbors better, interact with each other more and share with each other, let’s just pretend for the next year, there is hope and we are in control of anything we need to change.

Saturday, December 12, 2015

A Field

You’ve watched the black turn to green
You’ve watched the struggles of lives
June to July
And December
Did you keep a journal
Will you still remember
This was your life
You pray for another season
That you might get it right
One more try
To watch as yellow turns to black
And black back to green
You’ve watched the beauty
And the violence everyday
Did you pick a flower
Struggle with a thorn
I wish you all the pain
You could afford
A field with lessons
Without words
That a life could be explained
In one season
That we would not take for granted
The next
The sunflowers now closing their eyes
The field, a corpse, a swarm of flies
The summer heat
The winter chill
Do you remember the year
And all its lessons
Where were you at the start?
At the end?
Wouldn’t you love just one more year

just to Try it again

Thursday, December 10, 2015

Portrait of a Son

This portrait I will never sign, it was never mine. Even though the colors are familiar and the strokes are uniquely a piece of me, I have barely laid a brush on the canvas. In fact, more of my flaws you will see than any of my strengths.

I have stood in awe, as this work became itself. I have not even the slightest knowledge nor understanding of the medium and yet I welcomed the idea of creating it, a small piece of the artist is that which is created as just a whisper, not too much detail and yet enough to clarify the artists vision.

In this particular work, I must admit the painting has taught me more than I could ever explain. Now as it becomes theirs’, a work that will be shared with the world, I seem to be more clueless than ever before.

I can’t articulate the purpose or vision; it is so far beyond the comprehension of a mere artist. The strokes I have taken in recent seem more discordant than ever, it seems I can only damage the canvas and being an artist and a creative person seems more like a detriment than a virtue.

I am clumsy, my colors are unsure and even worse than all of this, I am quickly becoming irrelevant,  yet the finishing touches beg for my attention. I keep my distance, I need to these days because the closer I get to perfecting the masterpiece, the more I realize it has nothing to do with me and it is not mine. So I won’t be signing this canvas, I wont be taking a bow to the audience no more than I could stand in judgment of my lack of skill-the painting has become itself, I have been barely present and yet the lack of myself has meant everything in its creation.

I won’t sign this work, I will leave it to the audience to decide and they will finish it. They will never see the beauty I see, nor understand its amazing virtue-only I can see this and my deep love for it has made me the worst critic. 

I can only judge myself in its shadow and I never come up as nothing but a hack painter, a novice, a word smith without words to describe… so this painting, this beautiful amazing painting will never be signed.

Monday, October 5, 2015


Each name is abrasive to my ear
Each repetition of tone
each common name
A tree of ethnicity,
bleeding from its roots
words that cut like razors
Can not offer any glimmer of peace
To families
The sad privilege to recite
The somber eyes and the perfect quote
Seem pointless
For the empty air above us
Even now they’re sweeping the street
And taking down signs
The scar, the building, a sore
That never heals
We ring our hands in crowds
We wait for our moment
They live without
A child that will never know her dad
A mother that will never watch their son
Buried on that horrible day
Where one moment America united
On the precipice of pure evil
And we see ourselves as people
A nation under assault
United we stand
Shoulder to shoulder
They recite the names
We will be stronger, resolute

But never the same…

All the sea creatures agreed to coexist....that is except the shrimp, for some reason he wasn't having it!

Saturday, August 22, 2015

The Exquisite Garden: a prelude

This is a new series of poetry it will be complete with photographs of the garden as well as paintings. The premise of this collection is the idea of a garden, it has been the escape that I needed during darker times and it is symbolic of how I see life. There are many regular plants that I plant every year and they all have some sort of symbolic significance. The reason I started gardening in the first place was to attract wildlife, than it was to learn for the subjects in my painting and finally it was for peace and calm. Nature has always been a significant  part of my creativity and this is the culmination of the experiences that surround a gardener soothed and haunted by nature.

I will create a final post and most likely a self published book the near future when it is complete.

Bird song 1

I love the sound of the wren
It sings
Excited swirls of notes from high to low
And back
Barely seen
The streaming tones
Through deep green leaves
But still
The mourning dove
Keeps me still
Keeps me remembering
The sadness
The end of summer
Calm and pensive
It doesn’t sing
It hums
Much like the cicada
Much like the breath of a late summer day
But I seek out the wren
I seek out its beautiful sound

in hope that it will…sing again

An Absence

I was feeling absence beneath the shadows
Of trees
I was barely a presence
Among the dragonflies
And flies
I was barely flesh, barely bone
Amidst the primevial moment
Where the garden became
Its’ tender
Out of my reach
The dying leaves
The starving thirsting
Bend and meet the ground
I can’t save them
I can barely walk
In the stagnant heat
And all my expectations
Seem like rain
In late August heat
The gardener
With hands so hopeful
Now watch the harvest
Despite his careful tending
Wilting buds
And rotten plums
The flies take everything
Nothing goes to waste
But I was hoping, perhaps ideally
For just one more taste


Hopes that I might not hang on that perilous steel,
The thorn
Borrowed from the fence row
He cleans the field
Death is all around us
In the grasses
Beneath the clouds
Hope that I might never go to waste
The long steel ropes
Across the field
Keeps my eyes to the ground
Quiet among the things that do not speak
Keep us close to the ground
And never make a sound
Keep us tight to the thorn
Devoured by this oppressive summer day
Exhausted the breath
The embrace of a silver thorn
Hope that I might not be a casualty
That my life should mean something more…

Passionvine in Bloom

The passionvine entwines
The fence
Hope it reminds me
Why I’m here
The perilous stamens
The sweet mystique
A flower that barely blooms
But can not hide its fragrance
Hope that autumn is coming soon
Sleep silent in the ground
Roots remembering its beauty
Waiting for the next summer day
That it might once again
Be seen
That way

Cassia Alata

The candlestick plant
A light but no flame
Rise out of the ground
To fall again
When the ground is frozen
Leaving seeds
Just memories
To barter in the spring
So much work to grow these amazing spires
Rise and meet the heat of a summer day
No reluctance
For suffering
No penance beneath the stagnant air
No water
No special attention
Look next summer when there’s nothing left to save
The seed will find its way
A candle in the darkness
A beautiful yellow light, 
its only flame

All words, photographs and paintings in this post- copyright by Art by Gordon  2015