|A Poem, 6/30/2013, acrylic wash, rice paper and pencil on canvas, 30 x 12 inches|
...bits and pieces playing peekaboo in the paint...and that color is perfect, when I put the sepia along the edges it popped even more than before, gorgeous...
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This is the buried poem...
I am vexed. It is all commonplace at first glance—as it should be—
The sky is blue—or gray depending on the weather—there is snow
now—grass will come later—the bare bones of trees have
buds waiting to burst, but when I take a careful look
around—all is 'as it should be' on the surface—but
I know better than that.
There are other things beyond me—outside of my realm—
out of my sphere of influence—out of control.
I could wake up screaming some times,
but I don’t. Screaming solves nothing. What will be—
will be. Indeed. Where do I dare to look?
There or there. No—wait—
wait for it—maybe? Ah, no, I’m wrong.
It’s a photograph of trauma—the latest life drama
right there on the front page—right there on the television
and there on the latest gadget screen. Where to look first?
Don’t look away. Dang, it’s another train wreck of yet
blowing their wad—their existence—
constituted misery—making a mess for others to clean up.
So much loss happened long before the aftermath.
Someone dropped the ball between here and there.
Shit, they didn’t look both ways. Don’t you know by now?
Stop – Look - Listen for the two sides of the story.
Don’t you see? Can’t you see?
in keeping with the situation.
Running around putting out fires,
it’s all gone before you know it—
before you knew you had it.
or you’ll miss it.
Just a moment—a moment of being. Be.
I wonder ‘how come’. What the fuck, right? Seriously.
Some days I feel like I’m running a marathon while standing still.
Beleaguered. Belabored. Be. Been.
The cold Winter wind that lingers on the Spring equinox breath
is disheartening. My feet are chilled, but I’ll get over it—it
being such a small thing. There are worse things than cold feet.
Some are sure it’s just a phase we’re in—adjusting.
The world is appalling to me—these days
I am vexed
by it all. Tired. Dead dog tired
of the latest ‘it’ thing. It is—it was—it will be—
It and the many things ‘it’ is—or possibly
My head can just about pop off my body from thinking—
listening to it all. Whose side are you on—you chose.
Right or left—wrong or right. My country ‘tis of thee—
What happened to my sweet land of liberty? Of thee I—
Of thee... See? I can’t even sing the words—my vexation runs deep.
So I chose to laugh at the way things are—shake my head
in wonder of it all. Disbelief—how come—how now,
dear old brown cow.
I hope to be safe
here on my acre of the world—my home sweet home—
the one place I can call my own—
there are no guarantees of that either—no matter what I do—
staying out of it while being in the middle of it all.
No wonder I’m so vexed.