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2.1

The hardest part of having speech
is
not being able to speak freely,
even as the phrases pressure the walls of the
heart
to be freed.









1.30




Other ideas about his fall
From the sun
From grace
He holds a feather
And muses
Before
The thud







1.3




As things grow
Even as they obscue
And hide the fertile memories
That
Spawned
Them


A pilgrim's progress is what this is!







12.29

the year
dies.
It has barely breath
to rasp;
to rail against the end
and the new year
pretending to his throne.

My heart is old
and is audience
to lament and croak.
My mind is young
and tsk tsk's
the wail.

My eyes feed
the noggin
with such beauty
as only lust can savor;
even as the will
is thwarted
and the candle flickers.

I despise ends.












12.20




Ive been working on this painting.
Not always painting on it as much as
looking and thinking about it.
The stripes of paint were from a
moment
when
I was distraught
stuck in the mud
rutted to the Earth
and then
grabbed some paint tubes
and squeezed.
Opened the door to secrets in
the paint and in me.

Over time the stripes have grown
static.
so today I added shadows that put them to air
and work and meaning.

to whit:
In this life I am floating between
dark and light.
Death lurks, but only that.
And I, for my part,
Have done my best
to loose the tethers of worry.
Unlocked joy, but also despair.
cuz- you know- Yin and Yang.







12.11

In which I seek to become whole













11.28




I continue to work on this painting.
Seems endless
But still, I progress
toward something less timid
and enjoyable to the eye and soul







11.9

The keyboard
is truly
a siren on a rocky coast.
A mermaid luring sailors.

Tempting the typist
to swim in murky
uncharted thoughts

from which are concocted
only the most
self aggrandizing phrases.

The song of clicks and clatter
metered sounds
thrumming out gibberish.

These inane isms
are like strong nogg
in gold plate chalices

which for all their glitter
summon little more than
delusion.

the swigs tempered
by acrid after-taste.











10.28

meanwhile,
reading The Bully Pulpit by Doris Kearns Goodwin
I am constantly barraged by my own parental shortcomings
in comparison to the strengths of T. Roosevelt's and W. Taft's
fathers.
It is very difficult to trek the passages of this
thick book, when often stopping to look to the ceiling
and sigh with regrets that I didn't do one or another thing.  
I have taken the caveat 'compare and contrast' from those tedious
school and college exams much too much to heart. In all
aspects of what I do- artist, parent, spouse, jock, etc etc.  
In other words, at 7:38 AM I am throwing a raucous pity
party with day old coffee and this keyboard.  
Having so written I can now proceed with the mundane:
Great Grains cereal and OJ. A shower, clothes of various
wear, and the chores that await before painting.  







10.25



A narrative tossed
It was at best supercilious
In favor of this
Color and Air.








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