Vision Within

I trying to write a poem about this artwork...I have Created...
I will let you know later what results the experiment will produce. 

Another Picture

This is a picture taken in the front yard....
This looks more like Kansas in most people minds....
Kansas does have trees...The part of Kansas I live in has both praries and woods. These are several of my favorite things:) Tumbel weeds, dust devils, sunflowers and mystical blowing leaves...
 

Some Of My Art

 

Affinity in The Drought Of Creativity

Sometimes the poet, the writer and the artist have a difficult time crafting new work. Sometimes the material seems to have become a clique a rut...
That the artist wishes to escape from...
How do we survive the dry drought times.. By listening to core of our depth and the kindness of those that surround our life with the treasure of their existence. There are many nouns that describe them family , friends, and kind folk that dwell around us. We must find affinity for it is the silent font of creativity....
For in times of silence words are replenishing themselves in our subconscious...

Here is a photo of me in the fall of last year ... Walking in the woods behind the house....

My Poem "Poem Sparrow"

Poem Sparrow

i have often heard of you
poem sparrow
in the chanting of the old ones
in the constellations of their tales
as they recite the long geometry
and genealogies of the world--
in their wise voices i know
all of your exploits and your promises
i have meekly heard
and cannot tell nor can i guess
where you are perhaps far away
in an ancient tree of folklore
will be your metaphor weaving nest.
Where do you live now
beyond knowledge and lore of man
where in the wisdom of the world’s tale
do you dwell...

The smiling girl in the village told me
how you would visit me
if i would give you gifts...
She even helped me
write with my dim witted fingers--
how my fingers seemed to blush--
as she held my shaking hand
and traced letters into
words on tiny scrapes of paper.

Sometimes i believe you were near
i hear your trilling
in scopeless fields of morning
sometimes i could swear
i hear your splendor
depths in your wing beats
as they caress the bare glass of my window.
Words grow like worms in the soil of my soul.
i know that someday you will come
for them on my crumbling window shelf.

i beg of you oh gracious poem sparrow
like in the tales of elder days
something small a tiny seed make a gift to me
in these latter days....

Anything you could give would be appreciated
i would protect and deeply venerate
but please leave behind a small seed for me
that could grow in my chipped and misshapen
flowerpot on the windowsill
that shall grow
into something like a flower
Nothing large for i only live
in small things. Please do not leave
a seed that will grow gigantic
through the private walls of my little narrow house
through the thatched roof of my memories
tangling itself with the shimmering stars
past the trellises of the moon..

Something small and intricate i would beg.
Like a well spelled
cornerstone so small that it
is wonderful in its unassuming complexity.
A simple flower that would
in the darkness glimmer
and effuse me with serenity of happenstance
sweetly shine in the cold darkness
as the night lost its stars.

Give to me a little flower
whose petals would
warm me in the winter
when there are no logs of wood
for my little hearth to gnaw upon.
My comfort in the long month of solitude
as snow scratches at my simple door .

In the blasting summer it could grow
like a spiritual umbrella
unfolding its petals
giving me shade
from the desires of the sun
and my own foolishness.

So dear poem sparrow please
make it small and also simple.
i promise i will always feed you
and make gifts of words to you.
My dear flowing sparrow --
you shall never go hungry
for i have sold my sweet tan cow
and bought a dictionary
with the silver coins
so mysterious poem sparrow
though you may be hidden somewhere
in this narrow world
of shifting shadows
bidding your time
at your choosing
you shall never
go without for i will
humbly feed you. ......

When Words Hide in the Forrest of the Mind

Words are always hiding in the consciousness of the poet. The virtue of writing is that the poet discovers what is hid hidden deep within... Past the three headed monster of conformity.
When someone writes a poem for the merest moment they allow others to see inside the walls through the mask that society has ordained for the writer..
One must be willing to pay the price and stand naked in their work... For fear eventual kills all possible imaginative exploration and shrouds beauty in the cloak of secretes....

The Poem As an Extention To The Senses

A poem is a sharing bought about by the emergence of language.. A verbal mechanism by which the perception of the poets may be loaned through the skin of dreams, gentle sight and/or remembrance of what might have been; or it is a gift to the one who have in deep faithfulness reads what the poet has penned.. The reader has consented to skim the corners and crannies of the poem... Allowing a new world to bloom in their understanding...

One must see the world through the eyes of the poet. For the poet has loaned us the wings of their heart and feedom of the gulf betwen souls. Allows us to effortlessly fly across the landscape that separates imagination from the individual sensation...

The magic of poetry is that it is a sharing of sentience.....A poet must speak and the reader must gather the words that the poet orphans to the world…