So many eyes on
the golden mean,
ogling the curves
that unfurl from reach.
What of the act
of alchemy
between the cracks,
mending our pieces?
In Praise of Kintsugi
5
Queen’s Surf
I cannot hear the
suitors and subjugators
now that the swell fills.
Ascension
A painting and a poem for my son who is leaving the nest:
__________________a crest.________________
_______________the gleam of______________
___________every trough with____________
_________rising from_____________________
______to blue to green___________________
______your eyes surfaced________________
_________from ocean depths______________
_____________Born in a darkness__________
Reexamining “Gods of the Modern World”
The above piece (16″ x 20″, acrylic on canvas) is a very humble homage to “Gods of the Modern World”, a panel from a fresco created by Mexican muralist José Clemente Orozco on the walls of the library at Darmouth College in New Hampshire (see image below). In 1932, when Orozco began painting this particular panel, he wished to criticize the indifference of academics regarding the socio-political unrest of the time in this country.
Today the work is relevant to me in a new way. It now seems applicable as a commentary on the utter lack of value that intellectualism and independent thinking hold in mainstream U.S. society and politics. It seems that for a surprising number of Americans, the less you actively learn and the more that you blindly swallow, the better. If this trend continues, I believe it will be the death of us as a nation.
Doctrine of Signatures
So few of us stand now.
Trapped in a perpetual stumble,
the land just out of reach,
our veins dangle from our limbs,
gasping for breath.
Who will offer us strands of hair
for a tea? Strips of skin for a
poultice? We have even shared
our blood, our marrow, for
the ills of others.
We listen as our names
vanish, one by one,
with the howling wind.
Trials
‘Tis an act of sorcery…
to wax and wane
with the moon
to ebb and flow with
the tides
to be charged with
a womb
to wear the pain
inside
She Dreams of a Sovereign Bolívar
She dreams of a Sovereign Bolívar
They want her for her midnight blood
clotted with millenary stars.
Those from above and beyond circle
while she lulls the querulous
bellies of daughters and sons with
her own sweet orange flesh,
all too aware that the only liberators
left are inside wallets.
-For the people of Venezuela
———————————————————-
Ella sueña con un Bolívar Soberano
La quieren por su sangre de medianoche
cuajada con estrellas milenarias.
Los de arriba y más allá dan vueltas
mientras ella arrulla las quejumbrosas
barrigas de hijos e hijas con su
propia carne anaranjada y dulce,
consciente ya de sobra que los únicos
libertadores restantes están en carteras.
-Para la gente de Venezuela
