Another Abstract

I was looking through some pictures I took with my digital camera, and I came across one that was completely out of focus. I played with it and realized it had some nice balance and depth and interesting play of color. I love art that comes from just paying attention and playing around.

Accidental Abstract

This Weeks Poem

Open Me

Tension, wire, bloody ram

Maybe this is not the way

I feel, but the way I am.

I can’t use these

Keys

Today

Reach out

What to say?

How to lay?

In a cool bath

on a hot day.

I open you

desperately,

in a shiver of ache.

You open with only a little bite.

You have no need to open me.

I have no way to open me!

Open me!

Please.

The Lost World of Fiction

I have not been able to find that mystical space where I find stories. It is lost in the fog of long hours of work and no silence, of dreams interrupted by my alarm at 6:00 in the morning. It is hidden by days busy with small chores and many very important jobs and lists of actions undone for lack of time. I need to tell myself some stories and write them down, even if they do not translate well into other peoples ideas of readable fiction. First it has to be for me and then I can fit it into a form that others can use.  I have to find the space in time that allows me to create worlds in my head that I can put characters in and watch them move and interact. I will listen to their tales and passions and watch their faces and think thoughts that are theirs and mine. It’s only a little bit crazy, but it keeps me sane to use my mind in this way.

More Early Bird Sounds

At the End of a Dream

As it passed over the house

an ailing ice cream truck’s

broken soundtrack

Blared and blurted

a warped jangled tune

changing into the call

of a lonely goose

heading north.

The dream flew with the bird

leaving only a sound.

Grasping Poetry

Receiving Messages From Separate Individual Realities

grabbing a handful porcupine jello, or  the space contained in a floating soap bubble,

lips vibrating, tongue clicking, throat coughing strangled groan,

staggering, shuffle leap into the blinding wall.

How can each voice be different and call

us on into what might be

oblivion.?

Could be life is in voices speaking not to be understood, but felt.

Feel the song of edges

Knife and saw, feather and leaf,

Twang!

vibrate and tilt until something not yet solid shakes into

the periferal field.

Don’t look! it is not for seeing.

Don’t listen! it is not a sound.

Feel it there, not in words

but whispers of grunting fetishes

ground into a powder and taken by the wind.

It sticks in the eyes stinging, muffles the ears and

leaves us arms stretched out waving about

frantically for something

real

to hang on to.