it splashes the vision
with the limpid light of fall
sun’s long rays at the day’s end
a spotlight of startling hues
shone through the shorn bleakness
reflected from fiery cloudbank
take me back
take me back to the sadness
take me back
to the love
inspired by the painting “Crystal Light” by Erin Hanson (shown above)
I was a strange kid in some ways.
Before I even started serious reading, I was taking the subway to Downtown Toronto, alone, just to see the pure fascination of the art galleries. I rummaged through a tiny store called Cine Books and brought home funky posters of movies, rockstars, and the like, to paper my walls with.
The movies were my second love, and I would take any amount of buses and subways to get there. Once I had seen Ben-Hur, I was hooked. As for 2001: A space odyssey, I went by bicycle thirteen times. Barbarella also had many repeated viewings because I thought Jane Fonda was the most beautiful creature I had ever seen.
In those days, the big theatres had only one screen, were sometimes beautifully appointed, and, if the movie was a hit, it would play for up to a year or more. No videotapes, no DVDs, no internet. A good movie was a real Event.
When Elvis, then the Beatles came out, I was in my own nirvana. The music was etched in my soul, and still remains.
After seeing and hearing all of these aspects of Art, it seems that the ones that made the most lasting impression were coincidental with my state of mind at the time I was exposed to them. In my teens, (1960’s), the times were awash with new art, film, and music. I sought it eagerly, and it filled seemingly vast spaces in my psyche.
With the approach of my 20’s, I began to read longer and more serious works than the pulp novels, beginning with masterpieces from Tolkien, Herbert (Dune), Clarke, Asimov, Bradbury.
In latter days, I have started examining classic literature from Dickens, Dostoevsky, Tolstoy, the Bronte sisters, Hemingway and Steinbeck, to name a few.
But the ones I always return to, anticipating a slow reread, were first introduced to me during a serene period of my life, and I had a pleasant association with them. The same applies to the music of my times. Fifty years after their breakup, the songs of The Beatles still blow me away.
I still, at my age, get fresh enjoyment from new music, films, and art, but , strangely, I can remember a painting I saw in an art gallery 50 years ago.
Long live the Artists!
Light, bright white,
Radiates into the mirror of the eye.
Sound, in myriad, pummels the drum of the ear.
(Tautly, as a balloon skin stretched)
Whorls in the fingerskin
Brush blue velvet, blade of grass, jagged glass, ember’s ash.
The airs molecular, drawn in so vitally,
Invade memory, codifying the now and the forever.
Messengers of essence.
The tongue, tasting first of milk,
Ravens ever after for all in the Earth.
Alive.
Alive, Oh!
I weed with what I think is single-mindedness. Bunched up towel under knobby knees. Gloves of good leather for those damn nettles. A healthy respect for the spiders and bees. We’re getting on close to summer’s end, and we’re pushing for our house to sell. My wife, you see, is getting a little more sick, but continues to soldier on at work.
We could sure use the money…she needs a long long rest. I need the peace of mind.
Funny, you know….now that I’m out here with the bag and rake and gloves and all, I am beating myself up over this silly garden. I never had paid it a lot of attention or put much effort into its care, and now I am making it look nice for somebody else.
It’s a lovely day out here, tempered by the busy street noises behind me- the engineered farting of motorcycle engines, cars with stereos so loud you can feel the sound waves through your liver. Come on, folks. Let’s just have the birdies instead. Never mind, this old guy is gonna move, and you can carry on making your mark in the world.
As I dig and kneel, the earthy scents rise to me and I think that this little pastime is really not so bad. I am doing a bit of good in some tiny corner of the world. Surely the bona fide plants appreciate my getting rid of the riffraff. Even the spiders seem excited (or agitated) at the prospect of new craters in their landscape.
But, the little lift this few minutes has given me is on a seesaw with thoughts more bleak: the mauve of regret, the orange of anxiousness. My nose runs a little. A fly jets into my left ear, and I slap at it involuntarily, producing a nasty ringing. I stumble to my feet after the last offender is pulled out by its roots. In for a cup of tea, we shall. Rake up and bag the drying entrails, we shall. Tomorrow.
Feel it with the furrows of your fingerprint.
Match ridge to valley.
These fleshy gears.
Meshed at last.
Movement is mandatory.
A quickening of breath.
A quiet clenching.
A secretive twitch,
taken back.
Oh God, where is control?
I must.
I must not.
Mine is yours.
I learned in high school math
That it could be proven, with numbers,
that motion is impossible.
It was called Zeno’s Paradox.
It went something like this:
A man running to catch the bus at a certain time
would first have to run half the distance,
then half of the remaining distance,
and so on, and so on, ad infinitum.
He would never get there.
Some days, I am that runner.
Knowing there is a “bus” to catch,
Every day, every day, ad infinitum.
But I am tired, and sad, and poor in spirit.
The stodgy determined part of me
is a little sick,
but, like a voice crying in the wilderness,
it says I must refute Zeno.
His paradox was meaningless numbers
that could be proven wrong, just as easily.
And, as everyone knows, motion is a fact of life.
I lie in my bed, in the late morning,
and say to the now distant voice:
See? I have already done the impossible!
Each day I move, I do, I rest, I do again.
Ah! Do you! ( It says back.)
Try! Try now!
I say I must rest for a little first….
there is chuckling.
Then, there is something like paralysis of the will.
I want to weep from frustration,
but I must rest for a little, first.
Somehow, I get the upper hand in this wrestle.
Shuffle to the shower, start to shave.
What for? (I think, or hear). I stop halfway.
The sourness of doubt slinks back.
If I could just rest for a little bit first.
Coming back to myself, I am somehow in robotic mode.
Finish the shave, get dressed, carry the laundry downstairs.
Back upstairs I go with the load from the dryer.
Stopped halfway in a spiral of hopelessness.
The Runner. The Runner. This is impossible.
If I could just rest for a little bit first.
Zeno has won today.
Ah, child of the dust,
how shall I tell you?
Come, please, and play my strings.
For I am mute. Absolute.
I want to be heard,
but the weight is the word.
Please, sit.
Rest.
Bring your patience.
Inspect.
See.
Care.
Is there not some residual worth?
And now, you must tune.
Though you know me not,
in weary sighs I will tell you how…
The two highest are of a single strand.
They can speak beauty, poignant and piercing,
played with a bow.
The two that are next are of wire finely wound.
They speak of wisdom gained, lessons learned,
kindnesses felt and given.
The two that are last are more heavily coiled.
for they bear the most weight.
They speak of things sad, and of guilt and betrayal,
of regret, and of harrowing penance.
Pluck them slowly, with soft fingerpads.
If any should break at the peg,
stay and warm me.
Let the sting subside.
Rid me of the useless member.
Play me again, with your love,
and know that, now, it matters not.
We had a sliding patio door of glass.
February frozen.
Final, ’til the spring.
A poor insulator,
it grew small spires of frost, even inside.
Like so many iron filings
straining to a magnet, only white.
Quarter inch runnels of ice said we were locked in, for now.
I stand in pajamas.
Run fingernails down,
bunching cold cakes of whiteness under each.
A throwback to my ten year old self,
I make a squeaky wipe on the fogged glass,
and peer into the next dimension.
Minus thirty says the little red thermometer,
as a tiny grey-brown visitor swoops in and lands on the windswept stones.
How can these wee birds, with toes smaller than a pencil lead,
not freeze in an instant?
So thin, so small, nothing to eat.
I run and get bread, and the hair dryer.
Thaw the frosty door, pull it open with a groan.
Scare little buddy away, but I toss the bread anyway.
I think he went to tell the others.
In five minutes, it’s party time.
I sometimes sit on a hill
I am silent, but not wise
All of my money is gone
If I represent myself
I have a poor client
I am prone to rush in, and
For love, I lose all reason
I am of the species who is born every minute
I awaken, humming, in obligatory madness
We represent the lollipop guild.
Is of the bluebottle ilk,
genus Calliphora.
Morphing from its languorous larva,
it preens for first flight.
Fanning flattened wings,
combing black bristles.
Oiling the swivels of eye clusters.
Born of a legion in festering heat.
Leaving its poor shanty and dry patties,
it does fly.
Directionless, it wants but a tailwind.
On this steamy smoky night,
There’s a sad house
with a peeled and flaking window frame
seized and stuck.
Yanked and slammed shut by impatient hands,
the speckled pane breaks.
There are loud yells,
and the cry of a little one thrown into bed.
Soon her sobs are muffled in the dirty pillow.
There’s a pea-sized hole in her window screen.
A blue buzz gets through and circles,
landing on the lamp stand.
By some fate, it’s chosen.
The sobs subside, a thumb is sucked.
Under thrall, the fly nimbly knits
a dream of lasting peace.
Aremyfeetofftheground 