Sometimes, something’s gotta give
I’ve been mostly absent from Medium lately, because there aren’t enough hours in the day, but there *is* such a thing as too much screen time and eyestrain. I spent several of those absentee days camping, which was amazing. I’m hoping that sometime soon I will be able to get down to the business of developing the film from that trip, especially since I took a large format camera with me and I am keen to see how those images came out. (Usually, I wreck all my large format work.)
Before the trip, I worked like…
It should be green
all over by this time of year
it should be green,
but yellow brown instead is seen.
To answer human worry’s fear
tree blossoms shout out loud and clear:
soon we’ll be green!
After the whopper, unusual dose of winter that Texas received this year, most trees, shrubs, grasses, and plants appear in a state of traumatized demise. Normally by now everything would be fluffed in lovely new spring green, so it’s disheartening to see it touched with gold instead. . . . . as if Winter went berserk with a misguided Midas touch. In the…
Sparkling rainwater in a bottle:
did it spark and shine as it fell to earth?
A downpour of giddy fireflies who
raced and swirled into the waiting glass neck,
funneling their swarm to make a small lake.
The bumper crop of glitter filled storm clouds
exploding down like a party popper.
Booby-trapped greeting card’s messy surprise,
soaking your boring day right to the skin.
The effervescent hydration of dry
ideas desiccated by neglect.
Ignite the moment with carpet-charged socks:
twinkle toes deliver inspiration
through the touch of electric fingertips. …
A year ago was me at the grocery store
buying camping supplies a day early because
I got wind of a growing panic.
Endless lines, unease building.
The lady behind me asking if I had a horse
because of the size of bag of carrots I was buying.
Me thinking — I can wait to get Easter candy.
The drive out to the Chihuahuan Desert
punctuated by worried daughter texts:
Will I be able to co me back home.
What if I get stuck in Utah. …
Born and bred, y’all
the oil of Houston and the cattle of DFW,
San Antonio’s river and Austin’s old free spirit.
It’s the desert and the bayou, mountains and beaches.
It’s all the small towns in their true goodness,
the long stretches of highway through open land,
the twists and turns of the Hill Country.
It’s the music of Luckenbach and the stars of Ft Davis.
It’s peaches in Fredericksburg, pecan pies from Bastrop.
It’s boots and flipflops, tubes and fishing boats, beer and ‘ritas.
It’s freedom, and liberty,
with trust in God but not in Washington.
He sat at a table, listening,
morose enough on his own;
the words ate into his thoughts
faster than the waiter could bring his food.
Digested but never departed,
they fermented into an idea.
What he overheard was an idea.
Did they know he was listening?
With barely a glace his way, they departed,
so the words became his own:
breadcrumbs of literary food,
thriving into wordy thoughts.
He walked home alone with his thoughts,
footsteps dogged by the ghost of an idea,
haunted by internal food
that kept his palate listening. …
Across the pond in the kingdom of politeness
afternoon tea manners were wadded into dust bins
after hours, down the pub
washed down with cider pints and long vodkas,
make it a double for 14p
less dear than a lunch from Pret: liquid dinner,
quickly dispatched, squeeze it in before the last train home
or suffer til dawn on the night bus.
No, not a chippy, not a kebab, curry please and yes a Kingfisher Then him, bent over at the curb, pissing away politeness in a posh shop’s doorway disappearing, so I rode the lift alone, fell, couldn’t quite…
He makes bread in the morning.
The yeast needs time to breathe.
It rises to the occasion;
it takes all day.
The yeast takes time, breathing,
becoming something new.
It takes all day,
ruminating in warmth.
Becoming something new
is never an easy process.
Ruminating in warmth
comforts the agony of growth.
It’s never an easy process,
but change is necessary,
a part of life, ongoing.
Comfort can be found in the growing.
Change can be necessary,
rising to the occasion,
a part of ongoing life:
it takes its time.
Here’s a bonus photo of the bread. . . …
Not feeling the spark of art much these days, I prefer the piano, hammering away at something objective, with right and wrong noted right there on the page in black and white. Instead of the ramrod of opinion, I choose a staff I can bonk in time, measuring progress with my ears; they alone tell me when I’ve screwed up. This place, on this bench, at this instrument, is only for me, and I am apart from the world, not judged, not even heard, if I fall into the oblivion of headphones.
Plugged in and surrounded by silence, I am…