July 21, 2013 Sunday Whirl #118/Poets United

The Artist

Always in a state of repair

Wipe the slate

Driven to continue

Longing rings from far off

Echoes in the heart

When asked

What is so hard

About making a painting

The answer is

The beginning

The middle

The end

I think about it

I do not have the key

My only answer is

The artist must continue

She begins when she enters

The room that is her studio


It will not be laid out for her

No instructions

She must find her own way

Through the no-s

Brush away any tears


In the middle

She may have lost her way

No memory of

What inspired her

And has no idea

How to navigate

The artist often

Doesn’t even know

When the end is reached

The last chance

To speak clearly

To mesh the piece

Into a whole

Through the process

She will grow

She will become

The artist


repair, slate, time, driven, think, night, no

mesh, tear, room, longing, key, become

I have heard it declared that “painting is dead,” and yet I find I continue to paint, finding new and different ways to “say” what it is to be alive, to continue the old “dance.”   Elisabeth Tova Bailey says, “The evolution of our species is inextricably tied to making,” I say, it is tied to painting.  It records mystery, history, and the skills of our past.

Painting is a visual language.  A language that is fluent, when words are not sufficient.  It is not only about reality, but also about dreams, feelings, and things that cannot be spoken, for there are no words.  Painting comes into existence in stillness, silence and isolation.  It has the ability to be infinite in its’ meanings.  It can hold different meanings for each who sees it and still another meaning for the one who creates it.



Poets United

A Day Without You

The taste on my tongue

Is metal

Bright and shiny

My stomach




Like the workings

Of a large

Ancient clock

The blood has ceased

To flow

There is no pulse


Sadness seeps

Into every crook and cranny

Like desert seeps

Hardly noticeable

Slowly running down the face

Of a dark canyon

Colors my world grey

Long to break through

The caul

Discover sun

On my cheek

Warm as your kiss

Killing sadness


July 21, 2013





June 3, 2012 Sunday Whirl #59


Sunday Whirl  #59

New Mexico Thunderstorm

At the edge of the desert

You stand at the beginning

As you look at the horizon

You recognize the glow

You have seen it before

You crouch as if

To see it more clearly

Lightening burst across the sky

The world is split around you

There is a crash of thunder

Again like a chisel

Splitting the world

On one side you are whole

On the other

Your heart is pierced

And yet still beats

You crumple to the desert floor

And realize you are

Bloody and bruised

You draw all of your strength

To stand again

To begin again

At the edge of the desert

A wildfire burns

Note: Today a wildfire still burns in the south, the largest in New Mexico history, started by lightening.  The wind has it out of control.  It is said, it can be seen from space.

Saturday March 3, 2011 Wordle


Early Morning Encounter

Still coatless I pull on woolly socks

As the early mornng shadow chills my spine

The white snow transforms the landscape

From my kitchen window

I see you rise up from

Your bed of twigs

To meet this cold morn

Your daughter is with you

The fullness of your coat

Keeps you unaware

Of the icy flakes

That settle on your back

You have returned

After many days

I will not admonish you

But prefer your presence

Between my teeth

And along my tongue

I taste the metal of your absence

February 18, 2011 Sunday Whirl #44

Far From Home

I nestle into my seat

Hear the whistle blow

Toss and turn — restless

Anxious for the destination

The scorched plains of the desert

Follow the shadowy canyons

Sprinkled with seeps

The landscape appears smudgy

As the heat rises

Base camp for ghosts

The blinding sun light

Creates bizarre territory

Balance hard to find

And hard to know the core

Sores appear on heels and ankles

But still I pull up boot straps

Alone in the desert

Far from home

February 4, 2012 Sunday Whirl

Sunday Whirl

Far From Home

I sit among the ruins

Crumbled, rotted, waste

A metallic taste in my mouth

As just before throwing up

The staccato beat of my heart

Crashes loudly in my ears

A dart is thrown

Seeking a target

I am in exile

I walk the desert

Lift the latch

Reveal the scar

The wind throws a billow of sand

Before me

Dirt devils give a petulant twist

Light fuses

Set fires seen in the distance

I accept the present without rebellion

The future is dubious