Poems, and “sorta poems” that poured out in the places where other words might have belonged…
11/03/2019
I read the invitation on the last falling leaves of our apple tree.
Fall days like this are the best.“Come as you are” is all it said.So we went.Barefoot and happy.Soon enough I found myself standing on the wet sand while painting this one as this shaded creek flowed out to sea around and beneath my feet, pulling no small part of my life-force from my frozen soles and out to sea with it.Next time I get invited to this party, I’m gonna bring boots.Just in case.
08/30/2019
It can be anything you want.
Stone stairs lead down to an empty room that couldn’t contain the view so they left the walls and roof off altogether.It can be a community kitchen where breakfast burritos are served to surfers exiting the water on a cold clear morning.It can be a music hall.It can be a shelter from the wind.It can hold a fire and 7 kids too young to drink but drinking anyway.It can be a house of prayer.It can be a place to remember.It can be a subway wall full of graffiti where the train stops here and here alone.It can be a hiding place from the law.It can be a gathering place.It can be a quiet place for conversation.It can be an amphitheater holding the entire world in captive attention.It can be all of those things and more on any given day, but today it was the Dining Room where a rough dozen artists were fed a breakfast of breathless morning beauty on a bluebird day, followed by a lunch worthy of kings served by one of the most generous people I’ve ever known.There’s never been an empty room that held more inside than this one.
08/13/2019
Not quite a proper backstory, and not quite a poem, this one took a rare detour into something else… either way, hope you enjoy the tale.
Food running low. The hunter prays for a kill as he reaches into the dusty cabinet for his last handful of oats before the sun sends the shadows scattering to hide behind every rock and tree they can find. Out the window in the pre-dawn light he sees movement, but when he looks intently there is nothing. Just the grassy flat leading to the precipice over the sea.
But he can’t shake the feeling he’s being watched. And he is. I watched him like a ghost all afternoon as I painted these crumbling remains of his cabin. I watched him bumbling about inside while waiting out the days of rain. Talking to his horse. Carrying the bodies of the freshly dead in the afternoons. Drinking himself stupid under the moons.
Separated by nothing but 30 paces and time, he saw me once or twice and muttered something to himself. The third time he threw a rock with a yell. His aim was good. It passed straight through my chest.
When the painting was finished I packed up my gear while he gathered up his belongings and tucked things here and there into his saddlebags. When we were both ready, he led his horse toward the spot where I stood, nearly looking me in the eye, but in a distant way. He stopped and turned, practically standing in my shoes, and looked back at the cabin one more time. But this time he saw it through my eyes as the earth reclaimed it’s walls and floors, timbers and beams. What was built for man, was now a palace for squirrels and was soon to be nothing but a high patch of ground for the morning shadows to hide behind.
As we both stood there, I watched his memories scatter in the wind. His heart hung in tatters, like a prayer flag on the barbed wire fence, and he let the rest of himself blow away entirely, leaving me there alone with his horse’s reins in my shaky hands. I’m no horse rider. It was all I could do just to mount the beast, but it knew the way, and it would carry my body home.
08/13/2019
Just a reminder to never abandon your light.
You will wind up empty, forlorn.
Graffiti on your walls, occasionally funny, sometimes crude.
But mostly just the illegible names of spirits brought in by the wind.
And the markings of lovers whose bodies were dragged in by the tide.
Your doorway darkened by the ghost of a travelling painter.
Stealing your light.
Haunted.
07/12/2019
Every little canyon has its own song
I don’t have much ear for music
Painting is how I listen
And also how I play along
07/09/2019
Painted on location, 2.5 miles from the road. A challenging back-country hike with all my gear to paint this one-day late birthday gift for my wife last year…
⠀
It’s true, she loves the river⠀
And it’s steady constant force⠀
The ocean is just leftovers⠀
And she prefers the source⠀
⠀
She leads me through the briars⠀
Stinging nettle, oak, and sorrow⠀
Some pain for the present moment⠀
But the rest we’ll save for tomorrow⠀
⠀
The path is narrow and overgrown⠀
If it’s even a path at all⠀
Two roads diverged and we took neither⠀
She heard the river’s call⠀
⠀
Down the bank we scrambled and slid⠀
Grasping roots along the way⠀
These roots they hold back mountains⠀
They can hold us here today⠀
⠀
Scraped and bruised and winded⠀
At last we find relief⠀
We swim and laugh and stub our toes⠀
Even blessings hold some grief⠀
⠀
My mind drifts off to the coast and its songs⠀
Why oh why am I here⠀
I followed her and would do it again⠀
But we should have brought more beer⠀
⠀
How we ended up together⠀
A mystery untold⠀
I am a pool of simple pleasures⠀
She is the mountain, faithful and bold⠀
⠀
It’s true, she loves the river⠀
And it’s steady constant force⠀
The ocean is just leftovers⠀
And she prefers the source
06/17/2019
There’s something about immersing myself in the places where I paint that is hard to describe. It’s not the art studio, it’s a wild world out there and it always has been. The past emerges and mingles with the present. Undercurrents of metaphor and meaning rise to the surface and sometimes I try to venture out of the shallows and get a little swept away when I go to jot down notes afterwards. This was one of those times… ⠀
___⠀
⠀
I might have been a late arrival⠀
But I’ve been here all this time⠀
I was here when the plates collided⠀
I passed the bread and wine⠀
⠀
I was here when we emerged from weeds⠀
When the heavens gave us fire⠀
When our songs kept our mother awake⠀
When the rainbow held us higher⠀
⠀
Vizcaíno saw me here way back in 1602⠀
He called me by my name⠀
The island of Bearded people it was⠀
And to this day remains⠀
⠀
I saw them come and plant the grapes⠀
To sip the nectar from the vine⠀
Prohibition shut them down⠀
I watched it happen but the idea was never mine⠀
⠀
The sheep were led to slaughter⠀
And silent so was I⠀
When the cotton gin reduced their worth⠀
To diamonds in the sky⠀
⠀
I saw the pigs run feral⠀
Chased off by dogs who fell from the air⠀
The pigs are gone and the bacon fried⠀
You’d never know they were there⠀
⠀
My name is Stanton now and so it was⠀
On the day on which I signed⠀
And gave the land unto the guards⠀
I was ill but I wasn’t blind⠀
⠀
They will keep it from abomination⠀
A trampled barren place⠀
But I’m well aware they’d sell the air if they could⠀
As well as these lines upon my face⠀
⠀
It’s for the good I’m sure they’d say⠀
They’ll save the earth with money⠀
Listen at the gate when I pass in the night⠀
I’m laughing but this isn’t funny⠀
⠀
I did what I must and not without Caire⠀
How I longed for a better hand⠀
It was them and their lawyer’s greed⠀
Or else it was the land⠀
⠀
I’m the homesick Italian that built the Chapel⠀
With bricks of my own red earth⠀
And I’m the one that’s buried there⠀
Whose death precedes his birth⠀
⠀
At the altar I have heard⠀
The mighty man’s confession⠀
And to the courtyard I have marched⠀
In his funeral procession⠀
⠀
I stood last night beneath the moon⠀
Where they’ve sold God for the highest bid⠀
I may have defied their lawyers decrees⠀
Breathing a graven image in the mist as I hid⠀
⠀
From watching eyes I was not seen⠀
Except by the all-seeing lens⠀
To which I danced and jigged about⠀
As one does among their friends⠀
⠀
Today I rise with a mist in my eyes⠀
Tired from last night’s dance⠀
I called out from among these ancient trees⠀
And I answered with a glance⠀
⠀
And here I stood among the saplings⠀
When first their roots went down⠀
The mighty eucalyptus whose beauty invades⠀
Like a king in quest of a crown⠀
⠀
The fox and the eagle and the vanishing trees⠀
The trees they love to rhyme⠀
The eagle loves the fattened calves⠀
But the foxes they are mine⠀
⠀
I might have been a late arrival⠀
But I’ve been here all this time⠀
I was here when the plates collided⠀
I passed the bread and wine
05/23/2019
When ones and zeroes
No longer add up
And the printing press
Runs out of flesh
And the headlines
Have nowhere to run
We’ll pick up the pieces
Build temples of song
Made of discarded words
Metal vowels and consonants
Foraged from fields
Like seed for migrating birds
And the truth that emerges
Will cut to the bone
Like mist
Like light
Like all that we are
And all that we’ve ever known
05/21/2019
A friend I had just met earlier at an event in San Diego invited me for a rare visit to this exclusive piece of California’s coast. I absorbed it with all my senses as we surfed all morning and I painted all afternoon.⠀
⠀
So what exactly does lie behind these locked gates? Here’s a few things that come to mind…⠀
⠀
There’s bamboo and nasturtiums⠀
Shelter from the wind⠀
The rich and the famous⠀
And a few of their kin⠀
⠀
They’ll question you silently⠀
Check who you’re with⠀
To be sure that you’re nobody⠀
So they know who to dismiss.⠀
⠀
There’s a boathouse on stilts⠀
A pretty woman walking down the street⠀
Surfers walking back up the beach⠀
Blood still dripping from the soles of their feet⠀
⠀
There’s yoga pants and selfies to shoot⠀
A slippery rock holds a sign full of laws⠀
Merely suggestions for the leashless dog⠀
That nearly got paint all over its paws⠀
⠀
There’s fires burning on the higher hills⠀
Smoke blowing out of the canyon⠀
Heroes and children stand watch at the gate⠀
With garden hose, bucket… and shotgun⠀
⠀
There’s black cars with blacker windows⠀
Caviar and music for the blind⠀
Leave your shoes at the door, my friend⠀
All this and more⠀
Is what lies behind
05/18/2019
It’s the end of the west
It’s the setting sun
It’s a train-wreck that’s only just begun
It’s a crowded bar
It’s the law of the land
It’s illicit activities obscured by hot sand
It’s a war at sea
It’s the first shots fired
It’s victory in sight, though not the one desired
It’s a shift in the wind
It’s an outgoing tide
It’s the last man standing as the captain died
It’s a history lesson
It’s the name of the street
It’s a blank stare from the strangers we will never meet
It’s childhood freedom
It’s only in jest
It’s just getting started but it’s the end of the west
October 22, 2018
A fine line
Divides the pursuit
Of overwhelming joy
From sheer
And loathsome
Irresponsibility
The high tide line
Divides
The rest
Consider us divided
And
Conquered
Even the Spaniards
On the tall ships
Know…
Both victory
And defeat
Taste better
With a dash of salt
And lime
October 22, 2018
Who wrote this book of etiquette?
All of the pages are blank
As though the ink has spilled right off the paper
Leaving us to write our own rules with pencils
And skin
And burning eyes
After reading from cover to cover we are left
Just as we were before
Somewhat crude
And still rather unrefined
October 22, 2018
Even though she was royalty
We continued to stare
At the lines
Around
Her blue eyes
And at the
Shape of her
Trembling
Lips
That encircled
Her delicate mouth
Meeting her was
Our good fortune
She showed us grace
And mercy
We did not
Earn
Little did we know then
Just how good
The Queen would be to us
Or just how difficult
Fortune can be
For those
Who have received it
October 22, 2018
The hills are burning
And we breathe the smoke
Of their exhalation
Second hand exposure
To long forgotten memories
The mountains never forget
October 22, 2018
Hovering over the water
Weightless over the face of the deep
The storm rides silently off to the hills
To darken the eyes of the cattle
And drown out the country music
The light that remains
Clear and unfiltered
Falling from above
Reveals an orchestra of liquid geometry
At once carnal
Yet also divine
Each note the offspring
Of a passing storm
With the laws of fluid dynamics
We’re drawn to the symphony
The melodies ring beyond the hall
To the cliffs high above
Calling us to a quick dip in the sea before dark
But once inside the concert hall
We’re swept away in a mass movement
Of salty sweat and black leather
Nearly drowning in the mosh pit
Bruised, bloody, and broken
From there we glimpse the orchestra more clearly
Four awkward teenagers
And a mountain of noise
Who allowed these kids to take the stage?
It is here that we learned this law of the sea-
It’s always bigger
Than it looks from above
October 22, 2018
We came to this mountain in search of gold
We’ll leave with pockets full of solitude
We speak to the wind
We are here now
Everything else is gone
The cars and houses
The monies and the media
The interconnected web of information that
Ties us all together
None of that can truly exist at all
We know because we’ve listened to the quiet
That raged so loud our ears bled
We know because we’ve stood on the edge
And peered over
And seen everything we ever held on to
Smashed against the rocks
And washed away
Only to be returned as the treasures of
Small children on the outgoing tide
Dream on, dreamer, but when you awake
You’ll find nothing here
And that will be all that you need
October 22, 2018
Our father
Kept us moving
Even though
We stopped a bit too often
To read the signs
And ponder
Their meanings
When it was time to move on
We would often
Have to push with all of our might
Barefoot
On the rough pavement
Our father
Drove a Volkswagon
October 22, 2018
Sunday morning.
Somewhere under a cathedral ceiling the choir is singing an old song.
Out here under the open sky the choir sings the oldest song.
Somewhere under a cathedral ceiling, a choir is singing a new song.
Out here under the open sky, the choir sings the newest song.
The angels sing softly on the wind, they roar like thunder on the water.
They’ve sung from the beginning.
Unceasing.
They’re still singing now.
They’ll sing until the end.
Maybe even longer.
I worship out here with color, because I usually sing out of key.
When I am finished, I will go sing badly in the cathedral.
I enjoy those songs too.
Or perhaps I won’t sing at all, but I may still hum along.
But one thing is certain- on this Sunday I will go at night
Because the morning
Is full of light.
October 22, 2018
Out from her
Slumber
Eyes blinking
At the newly minted greens
Of a silver spring day
The forest is full
Of dollars
But she is hungry
For the fish
That used to swim
Up the river
Today
She will
Stand still on the old
Logging road
And even though
The whole earth shakes
On this day
She will not be moved
October 22, 2018
As the old roads evolved into flight paths
We considered the implications
Of exploring
Rabbit trails
From the sky
And determined
For all the expansive visions
That pass through an elevated state of mind
There are other paths that are still better
Traveled on foot
Where you can hear the
Crunch of gravel
And feel your blood move faster
With every uphill step
And be reminded
That nothing worthwhile comes easily
But for now
Just sit back and enjoy the views
We’ll be landing soon enough
And besides
Here comes the flight attendant
With snacks
October 22, 2018
They sit motionless, watching passively, not engaged in the passage of time like you or I, yet not outside of it either. We travel the world searching for new experiences, new understandings of what it is to be alive. They watch us come and go and always return again to their steady gaze. Changed, yet somehow always the same.
They have no need for comings and goings, yet they do not mock us. They know better. They have seen enough to know that our days are short, and our nights long.
They’ve seen our births. They’ve seen our joys, our fears, our love, and our tears. They’ve seen us wed, and they’ve seen our blood shed by hate, by sorrow, by intoxication, by miscalculation. They’ve seen our recreation, our red tape, our revolutions. They’ve seen our wars, our battles, our nobles, our scoundrels. They’ve seen us die. They’ve seen our burials, our burning bodies, our ashes scattered amongst them.
This is their secret: knowing without any effort that if they wait a little longer they will see it all.
If you are still, and you can hear the silence between the rumbling oceans, you just might even hear them sing.
Each has a different voice- one loud, one soft, one strong, one deep, one high, one low, and one with the voice of our Grandmother.
October 22, 2018
We’ve spent long days here
North of the river
We’ve spent
Our last two dimes
On
Heaven
And waffles
And a good night’s sleep
Sheltered
From the falling snow
Until the storm blew over
And now we ourselves
Are spent
Worn out
Like the two
Ragged
Dog blankets
In the back of the van
One more look at the ocean
Before we head home
And two things
Become clear
We’re not going home tonight
And
We’re gonna smell like dog
In the morning
October 22, 2018
They took one last look at the river
And longed for another time
Saddened by the parade of motorhomes and meth
Stretching from the ends of the earth to right here and right now
They refused to join the neon funeral procession
They took their stand
And to this day they remain
Still
And beautiful
And made of solid gold
October 22, 2018
Cerebral flapjacks cooking on the whiskey bar
Artificial roller coaster couldn’t beat the bumper car
Creepers in the bushes, don’t look now
It ain’t no good
Sanitize it, light the wick
Then give ‘em all your food
Paint the cave and take a bath
But what about the money?
Stick parade, children laugh, hiding from the sun
Drink the water, drink the brine
Eat the fish and honey
Leave a tip and exit quick
As soon as all the eatin’s done
Sun and wind, electric eels, out drying on a line
The pizza burned the house down
And blamed it on the wine
Our feet are wet with old concrete
The Romans laid to last through time
We checked the clock, the time ran out
They said they didn’t mind
How about the ancient ones
Still soaking in the past?
The love they made, the things they said
None of which would last
They wrote their names upon the walls
Like flowers through the cracks
They killed the sky, they drowned the moon
They wrote them loud and fast
Look around, make no sound
What is it we have gained?
This is it, there’s nothing more
This is all that still remains
09/20/2018
Sometimes a painting or a place stirs up more of a poem instead of any sort of story. Not sure what I was thinking here, but when I pulled up my notes on this one, this poem is all I had written down. Make of it what you will…
—
Bones of old ships
Left basking in the sun
The mast of an ancient whale
That swallowed the sailor’s son
Observed, measured, recorded
Love notes in the margin
In their book of numbers
Written but never done
It’s the allure of the sea
It’s the stairway to heaven
It’s the ticket that was rendered
For breaking the number seven
On that distant ship
Out near the horizon
They observe the charts
and adhere to strict notations
Students of the sea and sky
And of the publication
Of their book of numbers
Printed but still in revision
It’s all here and plain to see
When you separate the many from the few
They shout a holy countdown
But the answer is found in the long view
