The Beachcomber

The violence of the storm in evening

The silence and calm of the first morning light

He is the warmth and awe

In a sky full of stars

A whisper of the wind at night

There is no reward so great

Than the crisis where we rest on his awesome hand

The darkness of tragedy

Is the beautiful gift we’ll never understand

I blame him for the chaos in the stream

For the darkness after it rains

But he listens in the evening

and knows my pain….

The skies will devour our tiny cities

To show us just as small we are

Our earth beneath us quakes and takes us

But he is constant, the one amazing star

that always finds us in the evening

At our darkest hour

Holds our hand and keeps us safe

in deaths despairing hour

but he is a constant

as the tide that mars the beach with broken shells

and teaches the earth how to share

our broken souls washed up on his shore

the beachcomber is always there….

An Afternoon with the Ancients

Weight

I spent the afternoon with the ancients

Tall dark shadows on a primeval landscape.

Could have collapsed on the path

But let’s call it the awe and beauty of nature

It overwhelmed me

But this is why I changed my life

The simplest thing, fitness

So the mountain ahead might become the friend

And never the adversary

That the feeling of freedom might one day

Be savored more sweetly

How sad the legs that can not take the weight

Of ones own leisure

So unfortunate the weight of ones body
when it's the burden on the soul

Light

The paintbrush lights the way

glimmers of light in an ancient forest

deep dark paths mark the journeys of centuries

shadows deep and hallowed, keep us calm

and contained, a silence

even among the crowds of faces all in awe

and the light, a brilliant light

touches greens and amber all along the path

I am lost in the intricacies of leaves

the maize of cryptic branches

God, the amazing artist

touches the canvas with colors

and I give up all my brushes

a photograph is barely a snippet

of the wonder

Muir agrees, there is nothing more

I can bring to this place

exquisite light through

ancient trees.

Conversation

I cherish our conversation

as the forest listens intently

there is laughter like music

a stellar jay in forest undergrowth

mocks us

but we insist

even as my oxygen level wanes

I'll never complain

we walk through shadows

and glimmer in rich spectacles of light

I can barely capture this moment

my photos seem like snapshots

to the spectacle of one short afternoon

an amazing moment of sharing words

all the conversations with you

Artist Senses

Where would the artist find the colors

When he’s moving too fast to feel them

To taste the flavor

Of daylight…

To immerse in evening splendor

The smell of honeysuckle and jasmine

The feeling of the seasons like the main course

Of a meal

Its amazing how the senses all connect

All complement each other

Though we rarely connect them

Or imagine tasting the sweet viridian

Of early spring all fragrant and gently hued

Or thirsting for the autumn evening Prussian blue

A taste of burning wood and the sweet sadness

Of endings and decay

How does an artist find their colors, or feel alive

Without devouring the senses this way

Van Goghs' Last

Van Goghs' Last

You were thirty nine

And unjaded

How did you do it

There’s a madness to beauty

And you mastered the art

Anyone who knows about him

Would realize where I’m going

Or went

Slashes of blues and purples

The yellows turn to gold and red

Streaks of crimson across the ceiling

A sunset over the brides head

The landscape of poppies in distant fields

The blackbirds

Did you find an answer

And was it in cold black steel

A silver flash across the sun flowered field

Did anyone tell you it was taboo

To feel

Rich red hues answer questions

About that day

Black shadows and rich glorious corn

As the sky becomes all starry at night

Did you spend too long in those yellow halls

Those broken shadows and faceless walls

The poor, the hungry, the sick, the poor,

Didn’t you ever wonder what if

One more

One final view from the beauty of madness

One last stroke of color mining emotion

From a dark place

Did they ever tell you not to feel

Might as well put all your colors away…..

Let this beautiful canvas finally heal?

The Electric Hour Appears

Electric hour approaches,

The yellow leaves and the brilliant greens

Stare through the window

With a voice of pacific breeze

I can smell the flavors of rosemary and fennel

Colors on the edge of gardens

Bursting out for one last show before autumn comes

I sit in the cool window seat

I feel the season change

Crows mock the afternoon light

I stare from a vantage point, high above the golden leaves

In spirals on concrete 

walkways and the sea beyond the sky

Blue green and sailboats tilted in the gentle breezes

Still tired from the walk up mountains

In deep green forests

With smiling faces out of breath

A drink of warm red wine on the corner

cars pass by in routine

I am outside the membrane

A stranger to a peaceful place

The pacific breeze through windows 

wakes meI feel the calm of this peaceful life

Basil adds the hues and flavors tasted

Green tea and sparkling water

If I take a breath I might wake up

And all of this would be gone

If I open my eyes all of this will be gone

There is a current that twists and strives inside

As constant and violent as the tide

I feel the sadness for every fallen leaf

I feel the sadness for time passing

and the beauty of days elicits the emotional response

quiet in the other room

the silence of an early afternoon fall

2014, afraid of watching time pass by too quickly

Afraid of life and time awaits me

I’d take a breath but I’m afraid of waking

And stirring my eyes,

witness the stream of time

                                                                      Like sand through loving fingers strive

                                                                      The electric hour approaches

                                                                      And soon it will be night…

Last Moments

Perfecting that moment,

linens clean and curtains drawn

sunlight streaming through open slats in screen

perfecting the minutes

the indifference of the ticking of the small hand

the body recalls

remembering all the moments in light

now just a blink in a shadow

daylight

remembering a youthful glow

now gray and hollow

realization of the body is only a shell

just a jar that contains

only labeled with a face, a name,

to fill some shady grave

doctors put away your tools

there’s nothing you can save

the soul moves in there like a flame

dances across horizons bleak

when the body is silent

it’s the only thing that speaks

it carries the sunlight

the warm glow of youth

carries it into the darkness

and avoids the holes

we foolish youth investigate

doctors put all your tools away

there’s nothing here you can save…..