(About being a child. The smell of fall triggers a waterfall of emotion. Freedom is lost to structure and the renewed experience of being chosen or rejected in the new/old social setting we call school)
Darkness falls earlier these days Without fail The melancholy wells up
Like thermal mud-pots Boiling over With pent up anticipation
Soon there will be a choosing A renewing Confirmation of what I already know
The abyss in my stomach returns As I reach out Clumsily grasping for tree limbs
Eyes closed, over the cliff I go Encircled by perfection Conscious of every rejection
Life cycles ended in harvest A new year But we’re told it’s not yet new year
If I open my eyes Will I hit bottom?
Oils on canvas – 16″x20″ The sixties was a time when a child would grow up outside. Mothers would tell their children “go outside and play”. We would….oh we would. We were almost feral….until it was time for dinner. Going “back to school” robbed us of that freedom, and brought the testing of our worldly social skills to the fore. Some of us were very good at it. Some of us simply blended into the lead-painted siding. Fall for me has always been painted with these experiences, even after all these years.
I’m sure I reached out to you There on the horizon Words spilled from my tongue Sonic whispers of many voices In languages unknown to me
I’m sure you heard me Ten thousand miles away Your body facing away from me again I could feel your grin of satisfaction Explaining how many deaths must one person die.
My body portal-ed to face you Over waves of torrential rage The deluge of clouds Left tracks on your face Streams of lost hope
Lightning smacked relentlessly And wind swept through your hair thick as the loom Pushing it sideways in slow motion You were facing down Then slowly looked up towards me Eyes black, empty
I’m sure I reached out to you in the pounding rain But could not traverse the growing chasm Now between us. We both knew, The chasm would consume us.
Eyes locked I felt your grin of satisfaction My future on the edge of the waterfall Holding on to a semblance of self worth I couldn’t understand How you were at peace
The storm receded You, still at its center It would always be like this for you, wouldn’t it? I stood silent on the edge Watching you fade away My lips mouthing my confusion How many deaths must one person die? How many deaths must one person die?
(2) 12″x12″ Oils on canvas – inspired by a dream, by a lifetime