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

Literally,

Excited swirls of notes from high to low

And back

Barely seen

The streaming tones

Through deep green leaves

Constant

Emphatic

Determined

But still

The mourning dove

Keeps me still

Keeps me remembering

The sadness

The end of summer

Calm and pensive

Unshakable

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

Buzzing

I was barely flesh, barely bone

Nothing

Amidst the primevial moment

Where the garden became

Its’ tender

Out of my reach

The dying leaves

The starving thirsting

Stems

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

Pointless

The gardener

With hands so hopeful

Now watch the harvest

Become

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

Shrike

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

Waiting

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

Again

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

Aurelia aurita

 

Eugene Sim Author: Portfolio

Aurelia aurita

The moon shines on you

Keep calm

Slip softly beneath the waves

But don’t touch me

Its brilliant the colors

The light that follows

The iridescent strands

Soft with no form

Streaming salt

The summer day

We waste away

Hoping to avoid any pain

Irritate an afternoon

The sunburn the violent heat

You touch me

Quiet discrete

Keep your distance

It seems the only way

Keep your distance

Stay calmly away

Drifting

Over a sea of empty waters

As the sun grows more like the adversary

And I keep watching the tide change

All you ask, stay away

I keep my distance

And you comply

Watching lonely in the darkness

As the moon passes by.

Living with Awareness of the Soul

There is something about feeling that which is not physically there. I have always described my faith as something like being haunted; you can only explain the presence of a ghost or an entity if you have felt one. You can explain all of the feelings away with logic but it’s the strong feeling you have that can not be deciphered with logic.

It’s the shiver down the spine, the feeling of a presence that you can’t deny, it’s having an amazing full feeling in the middle of tragedy and crisis, this is where I found the God I believe in today.

I have concluded that there is a God I learned about as a child, a distant entity that was always there but demanded prayer and penance. I went through the ritual of Catholicism, wondered where the bells were that rang when the chalice was lifted. I never felt his presence like I have, as I’ve gotten older and more aware.

The darkest times are the clearest for me. I am starting a series on this, I am not trying to convince non-believers nor convert anyone-it is just my experience which you as the reader can take any way you want much like the artwork I create, you draw your own conclusions.

I will briefly explain the points in my life that I will expand upon with upcoming posts about this subject. Living, as a soul as I describe in the title is a beautiful thing, it’s a matter of feeling, of being aware of all that surrounds you without fully being able to explain or describe it, it is the essence of the creative mind.

My strongest point, where I felt not only interested in going to church but also compelled to attend with more vigor than previously. My young son was sick, an intestinal interception, he was just 2 and we were about to have surgery. His little hands reached over the doctors back as they walked him off to that scary place he would have to experience alone.

I prayed, yes for a purpose and you can even explain everything with the idea of a need and if it turned out another way, perhaps my faith would have turned to anger and mistrust. Again, it’s the feeling, it’s a feeling of being in church and having the sermon speak directly to your experience, it is the feeling of being nourished and filled by the sound of the word. It is an awesome feeling and the only way I was able to have peace in such a trying time.

The next was a blood infection several months later. He was on my lap as we were waiting for the doctor to put an IV in his arm, he was scared, and I was terrified. They were bring the pappoose a medieval contraption, I prayed for  peace and to help get me through and we were both literally raised from the place we were-I felt a presence of calm and peace, much like a bubble of calm which I have heard other family members describe.

Another time was when I went to a counselor for the first time, this is a long story but the counselor felt it pertinent to speak with me about her and her daughter’s story of God and how he intervened in her illness. Again it’s that feeling of being in a bubble, someone in the room wanting me, needing me to hear what was being said. The next day I experienced having to go to the hospital for my wife’s’ ovary bursting, if it weren’t for the conversation with the counselor specifically about illness and faith I would never have been able to get through the process of helplessness and fear of my wife having something life threatening.

The last two examples are even greater proofs for me. I had the most amazing Thanksgiving I have ever had, happy, full, content the day after a loved one almost died and still was in the hospital in the throws of illness-I had a wonderful Thanksgiving-that is quite a miracle.

The second instance was when I was having a major surgery and had lots of doubts and questions to fix sleep apnea. A freelance artist was in our office for three days, she said she never understood why she was even there because it wasn’t her forte the work she was doing. We spoke about a surgery she had, she eased my mind, we spoke about God and her faith and she shared that she than understood the reason she had been brought there-the next day she was gone and I’ve never seen her since. I did have the surgery and it was a great success.

All of these can be explained away, I understand that. Again it’s the feeling, the chill up and down the spine, the emotion from a sunset or an afternoon rain, it’s the intangible and the strong feelings they evoke, this is living as a soul. I promise the other posts will be much shorter.

Creative Block: The other side of a cruel wall

What's with the dragonflies? First of all, it's what sparked my most recent creative spring. Second, it always seems to symbolize the feeling of creativity, it is fast, it is there one moment than gone, it is beautifully colored and often elusive-much like Creativity. This will be a new series I am working on.

The ability to create has two sides, although the two sides are divided into a kaleidoscope of feelings and possibilities. In the process of being creative is an amazing rapturous feeling where you see all possibilities and connect that which doesn’t necessarily connect.

The other side is not so sweet. I can pinpoint several feelings and processes in each: the state of waiting to be creative, being creative and than dealing with not being able to be creative.

Creativity acts and reacts with everything in ones life. It’s the way we see things, process things and how we function on a daily basis. It has been the best of and the worst of living for me.

Let’s start with the creative feeling. When you’re there, everything seems to create itself. You have stored over many months or years the tools you use. It is just a matter of being open enough to allow the mechanics to flow. The feeling is dramatic, beautiful in its simplicity and rewarding in the feeling of seeing things develop almost magically.

After, even sometimes immediately after, the feeling of sadness surrounds the loss of that amazing feeling. It’s like a beautiful addiction, you feel like you’ll never feel that wonderful feeling again much like a person who feels amazing after a sporting event-it’s an endorphine rush that you crave.

A period of appreciation for the feeling of creativity but a melancholy much like leaving a friend that you will dearly miss follows. You get busy with life, you maintain, food seems bland and the sunset is just a sunset.

While the time between rapture varies, the longer it lags the more sadness and agitation that follows. The feeling turns to full-blown depression when you can’t seem to find any connection with anything creative as Life and pleasure seems mundane.

The eruption of the creative inspiration is much like a coming storm. You know there is a tension in the air, there is something coming and you can feel it. A great

Agitation and anxiousness follows the feeling as you are eager to begin.

There are so many facets to the process between the block and the euphoria of creating again but I will not make a long post even longer. I would consider it mania when so many ideas all demand attention at the same side. It can make for a very long stressful drive home.

I have stopped to pull over and write notes, the only problem with this is, it’s almost like interfering with the flow as once it is written out the idea loses its edge and intangibles. I feel like the idea begins in memory but it must grow and ferment, writing any part of it down puts the thought in the logic side and you lose all the intricacies of the inspiration.

After and during the mania is a feeling of intense creation, agitation and reward. You cling to that feeling as long as you can until the feeling and inspirations dim and its back to living with the danger of the mundane looming over your shoulder.

I have always marveled at a sunset, while others looked at it with a beautiful comment, I would have a deeper more inspired response. When I just look at the sunset as pretty or nice, I know I am not in the creative zone.

When you’ve met and known the fickle friend; creativity, you are never the same and time without that friend is daunting.

A Question of Tolerance

If we want a better government we need to have less tolerance for deceit and more demand for so called transparency in our government officials.

It’s time we take our country back.  We need to stop being republican or democrat, stop being black or white or Hispanic. It needs to be US, all of us against a government of tyranny and politics as usual.

All of the freedoms that have been fought for and marched for are at stake by a government that insists its their job to take care of us. We need to grow up as a nation and become active in our own country and the health and vigor of its free state.

I notice we keep electing the same names. We keep electing what ever the elites decide is our candidate to vote for than hold our noses while we’re forced to vote for politicians we hope are not quite as filthy as the rest.

We ignore our government passing on laws they make for us. We ignore their semantics, lies and cover-ups, “we didn’t know about that”, “we are as outraged as you” are and the most famous “what difference does it make”; all of these statements are an example of don’t worry, we’ll take care of this.

Another infamous quote that explains our problems in Washington-“you’re going to have to wait for it to pass”. A monstrosity law that few of us have read that fundamentally changes America is forced on us with a  “we know better than you attitude” is unacceptable in a free country.

Laws can not be enforced to some and not all. The public shouldn’t have one insurance plan while the government has their own. This is why you have a government that thinks its royalty. It’s our money we make and we take care of our own people better than any nanny state government could ever hope for.

Aside from expecting more from our governments we need to expect more from ourselves. Let’s stop being victims, stop allowing lawyers and politicians to divide us and convince us we are projects to fix and pander to. We need to rebuild a color- blind society that is proud of its successes, that know and name our enemies and protects our own with the ferocity of a mother grizzly.

It’s time we take our country back. A lot has been done for this great country that we are lucky to live in, only we can save our own freedoms and maintain a country we can be proud of.

An Unsigned Portrait

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 so 
irrelevant. And yet the finishing touches beg for my attention. I keep my 
distance, I sort of 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.