Talk of the Endings

We talk a lot these days
About the Endings
Put your boots on
When you enter the kitchen
And step carefully
Through broken china
Sometimes the Ending
Is only a burnt tortilla
With the face
Of Jesus

But mostly
We talk of the Endings
In low tones
Fearing the unknown
We speak of lives lost
And suffering to come
As if these things
Aren’t just variations
In the rhythm
And the beat
Goes on

Maybe we can only know
Some tragedies
Of the Endings
After they’re over
Through songs left unsung
And artwork left unfinished
And books left unwritten
The collective works
Of broken souls
In burned out mobile homes
That would have let the rest of us know
That we aren’t alone
And that we’ll always have a home
To go back to

Damn it
The world cannot end today
We’ve still got work to do
And as much as we talk
About the Endings
We never really know
Where or when
We will see
God’s face
Again

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Pacific Coast Higher Way

I know where this is going
I just don’t know the way
The road turned inland
Behind steeper hills
What lies beyond them?
Who can come close
Or ever even try to say?
Only those who travel
The Pacific Coast Higher Way

The twists and turns
Down here below
Far from the straight and narrow
They betray our longing
To let loose
And fly
Like the arrow

Confined to our vessels
Where the rubber meets the road
Constrained by highway asphalt
Here on earth below
And even if we should break free
From these well-oiled rolling chains
Our feet would fail us still
O’er the impassible terrains

We cannot fathom the beauty
That stays hidden from our view
By these high and holy mounts
We consult our maps
We pour over our charts
But still we’ll have our doubts

In the domain of birds
Dwell our thoughts of wonder
And all that is beyond
It remains far off
Just out of reach
Like the cat
To the fish
In the pond
And when the surface breaks
And the claws sink in
And all higher thoughts are gone
Who knows if we’ll ever
Understand the air
Or even the words to this song

To see these shores with my own eyes
As good as touching hand to earth
I’ll need another body
I’ll need another birth
I’ll need to start again
I’ll need a spirit that is new
Or perhaps an aeroplane
That would also do

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Plate Tectonics

A plein air painting of the steep cliffs of the Pelican Bluffs trail on the Mendocino coast of northern California

 

When two bodies collide
There will always be
A fault line to find
In you or in me
But not now
For today we are lovers
Folded one around the other
Cliffs and chasms
Metamorphic
And sedimentary flesh
Thrust like beating hearts
Love is a precipice
We stand on the edge
And as we spill over
We fall into the wind
And rise like mountains
On the updraft
And from these higher heavens
We wonder at all the gems
Glowing like children
Pouring out from the earth
Below

 

Artwork Title: Prime Pelican Real Estate
PRINTS AVAILABLE HERE
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Water Wheel

Time is a water-wheel
And we’ve gone around the bend
Water spills out
And down the creek
To the oceans to the clouds
And back for another spin
Looks like we’ve got a whole new chance
To do it all over
Again

Our last turn was dripping
Into an empty room
Full of whole new ways
To put each other down
Busted neon
And a broken tune
Perfection left the practice
All in a ruin

Yet water takes the form
Of the vessels that hold it
The river is the shape of the valley
And the poem is the shape
Of the thoughts in the mind
Of the one who thunk it and told it
So we’ve got another year ahead
To take this water
And mold it

Let’s think some higher thoughts
Of garden plots
And fresh laid eggs
Or just getting along and getting by
With our feet in the dirt
And the only division
Is the line between earth and sky
Let’s hold this year’s water
In better jugs
And nicer buckets
Or even that fancy pitcher
That your grandma left to you
Yep, that one
The one that’s hard to reach
The one up in the back of the highest cabinet
The one that’s shaped like a chicken
And makes you laugh every time
It may not work at all
But it might be
Worth a try

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Ghosts Can’t Swim

You never really know
Who they bring along
What ghosts are riding shotgun
Talking
And drowning out the song

But everybody here
Knows that ghosts can’t swim
Cold water to them is searing heat
And anyway
They can’t even stand
A bit of sand on their feet

The ghosts just stay in the cars
Angry at the stars
And their children here below
Made of countless planets
That stick between their toes

So in the cars they wait
Grumpy
Listening to AM radio
While the real people
Laugh and play
Real smiles on real faces
Beneath a bluer sky
Better times
And better places

So linger a bit if you will
Lend that wax to the stranger
Crack those jokes
And hide those beers from the ranger
Take it easy
And take it slow
And don’t be in such a hurry to go
Because it’s never really known
Just who’s waiting for your friends
On their lonely ride home

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The Light In Our Eyes

One fine morning we arose
And somehow cooked
Our morning brews
Seventeen machines
From which we could choose
And some of them
Are pretty good

We stare into ceramic darkness
That floods our morning with life
Egad, what’s this?
The sun that shines
In our eyes while we’re trying to write

Piercing light whom I address
One little request if I may
Just please step aside
And shine from behind
My eyes weren’t yet ready to play
My coffee’s not drank
My mind like a bank
Robbed at the break of day
But take it slow if you will
And I’ll dip this quill
And jot down whatever you say

And though I heard every last word
It now seems rather absurd
Like a worm that swallows the bird
And the details may be a bit blurred
But it went something like this
Rest assured…

The moon is in tears
Out under the pier
For her lover’s been stabbed by the light
She’s dressed to the nines
And dark eye shadow lines
Streak her cheeks as the night slowly dies

The clouds collapsed
When lighting made cracks
In the urn in which the wind churned
Out the rain poured
Through cracks in the floor
And the fire no longer burned

Winter’s love has gone cold
There’s nothing left here to hold
You walk in and she just looks away
But the note on the pillow
And her suitcase of snow
Make it clear that she’s leaving today

This season of strife
This fight for your life
This darkness that conquered the world
It’s converted to digits
There’s no way to bridge it
In a blaze of light the plug will be pulled

The night and the storm
This season forlorn
You know them well and you hold them so tight
You let them define you
But let me remind you
The warmth of the sun still brings you delight
And when all things end
I’ll still call you my friend
I am here and I am the light

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Again

1981  
She sat in her chair   
Laughing  
(with concern)  
When I put 27 grapes in my mouth at once  
And got one stuck up my nose  
Again  
  
1982  
She sat in her chair   
Sleeping  
(blissfully unaware)  
While I dug a hole  
All the way to China  
Again  
  
1983  
She sat in her chair  
Pondering  
(with me)  
When I sat beside her and asked  
Why the sand was full of plastic  
Again  
  
1984  
She sat in her chair   
Reading  
(romance novels)  
When I was hit in the head  
By a stray surfboard  
Again  
  
1985  
She jumped out of her chair  
Yelling  
(things I can’t repeat)  
At the seagull thiefs   
Who came for our lunches  
Again  
  
1986  
She sat on her boogie board  
Grinning  
(behind dark sunglasses)  
Like the coolest kid on the beach  
After riding the wave of her life  
Again  
  
2021  
She sat in her chair alone
Leaving  
(this world behind)  
And I wish we could be  
Back on this beach
Again  

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Parts and Pieces

I forged you in an open field
On a bright and cloudless day
Rare elements and minerals
Mixed within the clay
You took the form my eyes beheld
And there was no other way
I gave to you part of myself
And let the chips fall where they may
I gave you more and more and more
I gave and then I gave

And now parts of me are missing
I’m losing pieces everyday
I’m not the same as I ever was
And I don’t know what to say

You stuck your boot into the mud
Your hand into the brine
You painted me as though I mattered
As though parts of you were mine
And now I’ll go into the world
Forgotten by design
Set aside where few will see
Although to them I just may shine
But it’s not me that draws them in
It’s the parts of you they find

And now parts of you are with me
I’m finding more everyday
I’m not the same as I ever was
And I don’t know what to say

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War and Peace

Plein air painting of the Humboldt county coast near Trinidad, California

Conflict is inevitable  
The Sea sends its navy   
To war against the Land  
The Fog lays an ambush   
Against the Bluer Skies   
The Mud launches a ground assault   
Against Your Soggy Boots  
Warring factions lie in wait   
Around every bend   
At the end of this trail   
Named for a creek   
Whose Latin tributaries can be traced   
Through blood red thickets  
Back to the god of war   
Whose thirst for conflict   
Is only surpassed   
By the mutiny of his forces   
Aligning with Dappled Light   
and Babbling Creek   
And Chirping Birds  
and Buzzing Bees   
And the Unhurried Lover  
In Your Arms  
Conspiring   
To bring  
Peace

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Proof of Concept

Plein air painting by Matt Beard of the California coast just north of Point Conception

Painted this one en route to a lighthouse at California’s greatest turning point. I was originally going to paint the beach park about 5 miles north of this point, just around that first bend in the distance of this painting. After walking about 30 feet north to seek a nearby view, not even getting out of the parking lot, I turned on a whim and walked south. For 5 miles. I did some things wrong. I didn’t check the tide. I didn’t consult a map. I didn’t bring any food. All I remember is reading that you could walk to the lighthouse now, so off I went.

When I reached the 5 mile mark I couldn’t go any further on the beach, blocked by the massive cliffs jutting right into the water. No lighthouse in sight, I figured I would just follow the road that came down the ravine here. Lots of no trespassing signs, I mean, they really wanted to let people know, but I recognized the name on the sign as the previous landowners and so I thought that surely these must be out of date. When I got up on the bluff I could make out the lighthouse in the distance a little less than a mile away.

I could also make out a white truck. It’s always a white truck. I don’t know why. It just is.

Well, I figured the worst that might happen is that I’d be asked to leave. I figured I could talk my way out of any situation that arose, but I wasn’t sure I’d be able to talk my way into permission to pass if that’s what it came to. So after getting this far without thinking things through, I did the first smart thing I’d done all day. I retreated about 30 feet below the crest of the hill, out of sight from whoever was rolling around in that white truck, and painted this scene looking back over the coast I’d just traversed. This way even if I got kicked out of here on my way to ascend the knoll where the lighthouse was, I’d at least go home with this painting done. Proof of Concept, if you will.

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My Father’s Song

There’s a song my father used to sing
Not really a song at all
Just a rhythm of syllables
Rising and falling
With every step
And a pause with
Every breath

There were never any words
Neither for the song itself
Nor for the way
It brings me home

It would often be sung
Out in the wilderness
Surrounded by wonders
Sometimes emerging
From an ice cold pool
Formed by a beaver dam
In the high mountains

Or sometimes just in the kitchen
After a phone call
Grandpa has gone home
And our hearts fell
Like fresh-washed plates
And broke

Today I heard the song again
It came from my own heart
Sung quietly over my kids
On a forest path
As they took my hand
And said
Papa we’ll show you
The waterfall
And the ice cold pool

And along that path
The song walked along
Never really beginning
And never really ending
Just filling the air
Like the call of birds
Like the rush of the creek
Like my Father’s song

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The Loneliness of the Long Distance Rose Bush

Maybe it’s a self portrait.

This was painted at the Humboldt Botanical Gardens where there must have been at least 20 other artists working on the grounds. Maybe more. Beautiful people, hearts of gold, paintings of delightful beauty in various states of refinement.

I show up late, wander the entire garden, perpetually unsatisfied with the beauty before me. Feeling woefully inadequate to convey anything true or special about the infinite miracles of life all around me.

A sign beside the trail reads “Naughty children must pull weeds”.

I consider pulling weeds instead of painting, but they asked me to come and paint, not wallow in self pity, so in a flash of brilliance I realized that even though I deserved to just sit down and yank weeds, by not doing so and painting instead I would then for once be doing as I was told and could avoid botanical justice… for at least just this afternoon.

And the next thing I knew I found this lonely little rose bush standing apart from the other plants. A head full of beauty and a body full of thorns. This is my people.

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