October 28, 2017

For a nation born in
Protest and fire, we
Tend to ignore all of
The impossible beauty
Of our promised land.

The muted reds
Of canyons wide,
Or the melodies of
A fiddle at sunset.
The silence of the
Extinct wild buffalo,
Or the shifting lanes
Of corn farmer’s gold.
Our country stands
Atop whiskey barrels
And picket fences.

Not all memories are
Pleasant ones, though
Still they have value.
Our past is mired in the
Coppery tang of blood
Spilled without cause,
Of gunpowder clouds
And the quiet wail of
Lost sons and daughters.

Our liberty is man-made,
The true wealth here
Lies in the soil and the
Spirits who have long
Since fallen away.



November 25, 2013

Fluorescent lights flicker,
Illuminating an empty easel
In the center of the room.
One squared window peers
Down at the paint splatters
Adorning the hardwood;
She always likes to work
Right around sunset.
“It’s the one time of day,”
She would explain, “That
The change outside is
Finally transparent.”

Slowly, intentionally, her
Deft fingers caress the edge
Of a three by three canvas,
Lifting it onto the easel and
Carefully centering it.
A pause, briefly, as if to
Appreciate the dull white
Of the canvas itself. There
Was no palette picked out,
No planning of any kind.
She simply let herself move
And breathe the art into life.

Brown, darker than cocoa,
Like tilled earth, and green,
Stolen from the leafy boughs
Of a thousand forest canopies,
All colliding into one pattered
Landscape that consumed
Two-thirds of the canvas.
She hastily searched for a
Well-used paint bowl, and
Gathered reds, blues,
And a dash of off-white.
Brushes aside, this needed a
More tactile, expert touch
To truly come through.
A field of lavender, burst
Into reality, dripping down
From the sheer beauty
Captured within.


Indian Summer

September 12, 2013

Swirling winds pick up;
Subtler hues in your eyes
Shine like the hard faces of
Gems cut from the earth.
It is not yet the equinox.

I wonder if the roots of
Trees feel the warmth
Of autumn sunlight, or if
They drink in the soil
As their foliage turns
The colors of passion:
Orange and crimson.

Hopefully your mind
Wanders like mine,
Swaying like those leaves
In the dusk, braving the
Mires of reality just to
Think of me.