Opening

gathered around the table

at the end of dinner that night

we told jokes and laughed

and i became giddy 

even light-headed

and said “what’s wrong with me?

everything is suddenly so absurd

i feel like i’m high.”

my wife, still giggling, said sarcastically 

“right. there must be something wrong 

if you’re happy.”

vertigo struck then 

when i saw the time stretched out behind me

that it had been wrong

it was impossible to feel happy when

I was waiting for the next threat

but there was a ceiling and a sky 

well above my brow

and the floor beneath my feet

was a surface to traverse

the place at the door was a threshold

not a limit

it’s hard after so long to locate

when i’d contorted and squeezed myself

between these slabs of obligation and despair

when i’d become suspicious of joy

or the junction at which i’d ceased to believe

it was there at all

and then i was back in my anxious skin

listening again to the 

beautiful peals of my children’s laughter

and couldn’t help but smile

The Artist Formerly Known As Little Rattle Stilt

i’ll sit down to spin one of these

or set up to create

but my name is known 

and always my mind is summoned away

i have these ideas about art

its value in my dreams is measureless

and my needs are small

after the demands of modern life are met

sometimes i get online and search

“what is the point of art”

i don’t know why i am never reassured

it’s no use tearing myself in two

and i’ve no mountain cottage to run to

so i seek out any scattered times

deemed barren by contemporary standards

and if i escape the rattling ghosts in my head

self-loathing and dread

i enter that ethereal wilderness

where i can melt into words

or strokes of pencil or paint on cold press pages

and there it feels like spinning sheaves into gold

The Acre

sometimes a cutting from some 

monocot stolon node in fertile soil

is enough to start roots

and a whole new plant

the beginning of a nursery

Whitman’s Leaves did that in my brain

and the roots dug deep into my soul

withered but still fertile

until my hair grew green

Emerson’s over-soul 

become dense like sod

constantly fertilized ever since

with Pound and Eliot and Baraka

Clifton Rumi Oliver Mullen and more

and later spoken word 

to this day

i stretch out like an acre

fields rich and overgrown

singing with life 

and the winds’ waves across

high stalks 

of lush green grass

Sketchbook VII

 

Watercolor pencils - "Farmhouse Door"

Timeless

commodities

planned obsolescence 

the irony

of our senescence

in plastic trash

and ocean bin

or dig a hole

and throw it in

holy war

fucking joke

righteous cloud

of noxious smoke

haste makes waste

stoke the flames

scorch the earth

and hell’s the same

the market’s hand

in boom or bust

church or bank

in god we trust

Beginning Of The End

after the first three were grieved

the laughter was a reprieve

but that half-believed relief 

was brief

no lasting remedy of serenity

could be stoked in the smoke

when the heavenly engines courses

were measured in horses

like some moronic ironic semiclever rejoinder

rejuvenating easy despair 

that was already there

yes brevity of levity gave way

gravity held sway

in a swarm of warm harmony

that should have been charming

and with disarming alacrity

electricity crackling

the ravening blasphemous cavernous maw

with depraved melody of pistol-whip fidelity

followed with opening jaws

and in its hollow swallowed the law

we never saw

and that was all

It's Not Easy

I have a black cloud in my head instead of a brain.

It’s all negative charges and laden with rain.

How the frogs got up in there I can’t really tell,

but they’re freezing, and pissing, and croaking like hell.

With this metaphor, you’d think a downpour was due,

but i’m dry as a dessert from eyes to my shoes.

My grief’s nearly gone, but gone too are my joys,

my thoughts all cacophonous amphibian noise.

You might guess I’m depressed from the signs I exhibit,

and you’re probably ribbit, ribbit, ribbit, ribbit …

Death Is No One

i sometimes wonder when i’ll die

and i try not to personify it

it won’t come for me

it's something in my cells

and i think of when because

death has no dignity

will i be asleep

or on the shitter

or sitting at my desk

in service of someone else

given what happens 

i suppose it’s all the same

until i finally get around to thinking

about when i’ll live

The Last Cries Freedom

i question the right of anyone

to rule over me and you

to uphold hegemony

and dismiss these questions as anarchy

as though it were something to dismiss

and not the very space between regimes

in the face of the vastness of space

no law of man can hold its place

it begins to float off toward other stars

exoplanets

the unforgiving hostility of so many 

supposedly habitable zones

to the violence of that night

a raised fist is right

when the noose of the law becomes

too tight around your throat

and a last roar for freedom 

is all that can escape

before the void opens

sometimes it’s a voice screaming in fear

sometimes it’s a song

sometimes it’s a splash of color

stabbing out at the eyes 

like a dagger flashing

on a municipal concrete wall

that someone could suffer

or starve

or be houseless

in a world with so much

flies in the face of every rule

that rule

the illusion of freedom

all held up on the legs 

of despair

Sketchbook VI

 

Graphite pencil sketch

Minuet

how fragile 

existence

on this vast 

spiral ride

how precious

gravity

bodies skate

their ellipse

round and round

our spinning 

and finite 

figure of

days and nights

our dwelling

here on this

living orb

sustained by

one star’s light 

Thoughts of Home

caramel crema on a cup of hot coffee

bite of milk chocolate, crunchy bit of toffee

covered cup green tea steeping on the counter

rough around the edges, slowly getting rounder

overcast weekend rainy forecast and a curse word

curled up on the couch with a pencil and a crossword

woodsmoke from the chimney of my childhood home

leave a candle in the window when i roam

leave a candle in the window when i roam

Haiku 1.21.22

when we all go out
there will be fear and freedom
breaking barriers

Sketchbook V

         Colored pencils
 

Alone In Fredonia

late spring days seized back

lost and lazy evenings 

for weeks on end cycling

by back road vineyards

wild flowers

to the same picnic bench by the beach

overlooking the lake

journal out in front of me

cars pass slowly at my back

watching the sunset over the water 

my bike at my side

the sound of waves

laughter in the distance

contented even if pensive

breeze fishy and metallic and sweet

cooling the sweat

wind at my back on

the quiet ride home

Work

working toward despair

each day robbed of life and time

given willingly unwillingly

to a master of man’s design

Singularity

so much distraction amasses

a mind becomes a black hole

from which nothing can escape

the compression of noise

to a point of thoughtlessness

no decision can be made

nothing can be born of this

totally normal condition of 

civilized living

Sketchbook IV

 

        Watercolor pencil

Bible Double Standard Haiku

When Goliath fell 

David cut off his huge head.

So much for Moses.

Erratum

Curiosity in seemingly mundane aspects of everyday life.

Wonder at the interplay of light and shadow on a carpeted floor.

Experience of complete trust in the honesty and loyalty of another human being.

Desire for parental and sibling approval for creative endeavors.

Belief that mosses are miniature forests to the tiny life that lives there.

Exaltation of an oak, maple, and poplar forested hillside in autumn.

Ability to maintain a quiet, thoughtful, and meditative state of mind.

Motivation to expend effort on creating a sense of romance with love interests.

Capability of experiencing true joy or basic happiness without suspicion.

Faith in perception and worldview.

Hope in a better world.

Self-confidence.

Dreams.

Safe As Houses

glass on red ground glints
bare feet running through grass blades

the sand was dirt filtered through a screen

we picked berries from bushes on the bank

nevermind the nettles

bloody scratches were just the price you paid

for sweetness

nails crisscrossed in a mosquito bite

the air all honeysuckle and leaf rot

lawn clippings mouldering by

the rock pile snake den

there was never any fear

because there was never any danger

only in leaving

were we lost in the woods

Untitled 1.14.22

through the cold window

overcast sky like smoke

the dull orb glows but blind

diffuse light ghostly fingers

dancing in the rock salt

under the dullness on the street

the trucks come

men with chainsaws carpenter bees

machines wailing and grinding

remove a dead tree

in the white silence that follows

the neighborhood rituals continue

the house grows still and dark

Sketchbook III

 

Watercolor pencil - I'm on a portraits kick.

Us

No one makes

it out alive.

No one is

left to remember.

Maybe

our descendants

will find our art,

our computers.

Canvas burns.

Plastic melts.

Screens go dark.

Clouds evaporate.

No one

makes it

out alive.

You’ll see.

No. 

You won’t.

Sketchbook II

 

My first portrait done in watercolor pencil. Getting the feeling for how to do shadows and how to blend colors. 

I can do better, but there are parts this portrait I am pleased with. I'll keep trying. 

Awake

sleep creeps up behind my eyes

the ambush is sweet,

but i realize 

if i could function normally on no sleep

or only a voluntary basis

why would I ever sleep again

dreams formerly so vivid

now filled with livid figures

and sometimes my death

sleep brings me closer to life

but no closer to living

giving half of my life to unconsciousness

makes me want to hold on

eyes open and breathing

thinking and feeling

i bear witness to the beautiful

inevitability of change

and too soon eternal rest

Mind and World

things appear to shift in the shadows

colors move over the surface of the table

in the dim yellow light

stare at a green blanket too long

and the yellow wall is red

touch is the uneven sensation of 

electromagnetic force fields and chemical

signals from my nerves to my brain

increasingly penned by light

the choices of others and the very nature

of the universe

the child’s paint brush moves over the paper

the yellow circle becomes a sun

a black smudge cat plays with 

the blue and yellow smudge children

the orange and purple smear is not a house

the children live in a giant pumpkin

and because it’s carved with a face

it’s Halloween again in January

repositories of sensations and mistake

these bodies carry the imagination for a short time

everything is error agreed upon

made invisible by acceptance

at the hour of greatest uncertainty

measuring by certainty is still 

not your friend

pictures on the wall

break the frames

spread the paint around

with your small, bare hands

Sketchbook 1

 Watercolor pencil - wet and dry - first sketch.

I received my order of some watercolor pencils, brushes, and a new little sketchbook with good paper for mixed media. I'll be playing around with watercolor pencils (among other things) and will post some results here from time to time to switch things up.

The above painting reminds me a little of a pond close to where I grew up. 

Be good to each other.

~MS

Red Harbor Twilight

women of the seafoam and green

wandering the gloaming beaches

black hair on bare shoulders

the salted breath of a breeze

pacing on sandy driftwood porches

yellow orange torches light the scene

sighing marvelous is the night 

luring in the feast like pulling threads

of light from the air

rocks rise from the sea 

hear the wave crash roar

the hollow echo of dead voices

the cottage sits aside the forest edge

rises on its legs to the trees

greet the night hour the chanting

light the fire beneath the kettle

there’s no more casting of nets 

the sun sets the water turns red

some creature meets the surface 

for a bit of bread 

a rising wave swallows its form

fingertips descend to darkness

as the sun slips below 

the horizon’s crimson lips

Slang and Sloth

If you wasted time or dawdled,

blundered, erred, or misconstrued,

made a dunderheaded clanger, 

fuck-up, fail, or a boo-boo;

If you’re lazy, or a loafer,

or your head was in a fog,

in military-speak you screwed the pooch, 

or fucked the dog.

Peace

peace from pax
a roman imperial military word
for defeat and assimilation

peace is submission to rule
who's

that's the question

Retain/Deploy

retain,

conserve, reserve,

cherish, maintain,

sustain, continue, perpetuate,

extend, stretch, 

unfurl, unroll, spread,

disperse,

deploy

Down From Hope

Down from hope,

we woke and wailed.

Despair is Hell!

Fairness jailed!

Lock her up!

Have him arrested!

In infernal bowels digested!

By false facts and lies,

our minds infested.

Then back to sleep

when the hill is crested.

Peace descends

and stills the heart.

Now back to the 

fucking start.

Epiphany

“And having been warned in a dream 

not to go back to Herod, 

they returned to their country 

by another route.” 

- The New Testament: New International Version, Matthew. 2.12

Who in all of creation

would kill a baby

but rulers,

kings and queens,

their assassins,

wealthy titans of industry

with no concern for

the environment or drinking water,

governments beholden

to corporate power,

militaries in their service,

or impoverished and suffering people

with no alternative

but to bring a child who will live

diseased and hungry

into this world?

Or is it “whom”?

It’s important, you see,

for the rule in all things

to be observed.

Third Missed Day

Wow. I'm missing days all over the place. Not really sure what to do about it except post two or more today and try harder in the future. I'm please to have been consistent up to the point that major changes have happened in my life.

If I went by readership numbers though, I would guess y'all made a new years resolution not to read this blog anymore anyway.

Still, moving forward ...

Coming up:

• In general, I think I will try to post here a little more often.
• You can expect a 6 month check-in closer to the end of February.
• Expect more visual art.

I hope you're all well.

Be good to each other.

~MS

Turned Away

in the cold darkness

the wayward man passed alone

worn slowly raw

to the core

a jagged rock in a frigid stream

end over end

will round and wear 

to nothing

Sign Of A Season

the little, yellow dandelion

smiling brightly as the late spring sun

bobbed in the emerald green grass

to the breeze’s silent tune

On Poetry As A Practical Matter

a poem is not a practical matter

Pound’s “petals on a wet, black bough”

bear that baggage

made more through metaphor

but when the end of night nears

and the weary work day looms ahead

words are

buoys in the saline sameness 

of a black, brine sea

Forces of Nature

rain falling in sheets on the street

the low roar of heaven’s descent 

wind pushes up against the windows

buffeted on all sides 

where the breath of the world

and the scream from the sky

collide