Towers of the Skies 2002

My whole being in this Cypress Bowl forest,
Would search for a new seeing,

Send me a message,
I would think to myself,

The peace is beautiful,
My mouth would restrain from revealing that message,
As for the listeners would pronounce,
Perhaps a scandalous refrain,

God,

And I do believe in the almighty,

Send me something,

Inspiration,

Or merely a sign,

Heavenly sent,

The guardians of this land are silent,
The firs will watch and contemplate,
Pines just renounce my apparel,
And the aspens distort the sunlight and try to blind me,

This glorious place below these towers,
Reaches to fill that creative void,

I have begun to settle down now,

With the comforting sounds of the porcupine quills,
Scraping a melodious tune along the boughs of the firs,

And this watercolour which will fill my Soul.

The Goldfinches Rally 2008

The springs deluge,
Would hamper the motions of this meadow,
Sound out goldfinches in flight,
And pass by in sweet formation,
They love to rest and redress,
One especially enjoyed my work station,
It perched on that mountain ash entwined with the wild strawberries,
Those robins and chipmunks had feasted on those delectable morsels earlier,
My sweet yellow jacketed friend,
In your black and white feathery trim,
Your song is so poignant,
As is the preparation of your departure,
My deal with you for next time is,
A small feeder,
In which I shall hang from my easel,
I hope that will keep you intrigued by my side.

Consequences of The Solarized Mobile 1995

I would reach,
Deep,
Deep,
Into my being,

Pulling and tucking,
At all the beautiful feelings,
Collected from the mere joy of living,

That furnace in space,
With its heat and light,

Oh,
What energy,

All that solarized force,
Encapsulating this part of the solar system,
Flooding onto every particle created,
And reaching even to this corner,
Of that consequence of immobility,

Cajole me back into the realm of space,
My hands and imagination revealed,
Another painting,

"Could you be real?",

I would like to think so,

As it has become the show,

Another image as real,
As the artist seated,
Or the vegetation thriving,
And all the creatures around surviving,

Just an old car with the sun as a companion,
In this special light of that moment.

A Charcoals Delight 1995

That familiar sound,
Of the sweet scratches of delight,
Falling sometimes towards the earth,
My fingers would grasp another worn down stick,
Permeating the flesh,
With that earth tone pigment,
Those beautiful digits become the tools,
And work in unison,
As the moments proceed,
Another image is realized,
We all know in our hearts where each sketch will go,
More crosshatching and blending,
Tiny indications,
Larger impressions,
A charcoals delight,
I am contented with the results,
Also the muskrat living in the wheel well felt the same.

The Watercolour Ride 1995

A country ride was never a drive,
The fortunate ones stayed alive,

Buckling never became a fact,
Thanks to Heaven we all use that tact,

This image will live again in water detail,
Papers strength and application entail,

I loved everything I saw that day,
Hundreds of different views in May,

Wildflowers and creatures around me a lot,
All us people in this painterly party greet and talk,

When it is time to depart and drive away,
We're so happy our jalopy isn't one from that heyday.

Ghost Trip of the Travelers 1995

That ancient quest,
Of that road traveled,
But not maintained,
Where the breakdowns may occur,
Leaving many a vehicle trapped; and thus forgotten,

Ghost car with its last sputtering and mechanical calamity,
In another century only the living may announce,
It will stall and that is where it will remain,

Our artist club will hike along these trails and discover where to paint,
The calls of the gulls out at the seas edge,
Could be the warnings of the inevitable,
How many have heard those same sea cries,

The mudflats have sometime taken these derelicts on a salty journey,
Dumping them mischievously any which way,
Well those mortals did the same,

Nature gradually recycles and chooses which ones to leave as artifacts,

Metal monuments facing the hikers along those trails,

With those pathways overgrown with the wild asters, fireweed and goldenrod,
And some did good in their own wild, rusty, vehicular, flowerpot arrangements,
Occasionally a crumbling roof buried in the soft ooze of the flats could be seen,

Even those people,
Probably now all spirits; many would like to believe,
Are traveling in that ghost car,
Towards a new plain,
Where they will never breakdown.

Two Thousand And Ten Flowering Lights

In a flash from one year,
Into the next,
The fireworks would strobe dainty flashes of atmosphere,
It was now seconds into Two Thousand And Ten,
Shouting joys from each guest, "Happy New Year!",

The garden with its miniature monuments frozen,
Beautiful abstract forms,

A painting from the night,

With its jet black brilliance,
And hues of dissipating flora,
Will set forth soon,

Even under the snows of this winter,
A glorious year with more flowers,
That will never disappoint the visionaries,

Or the tiny garden fairies.