"Tomorrow"

"Tomorrow," 12 x 12 acrylic on gallery-wrapped canvas, palette knives only

"...Tomorrow is today's dream." --Khalil Gibran

"Do not be anxious about tomorrow...." Jesus

Dreams. Tomorrow. Today. Yesterday. In eternity, there is no tomorrow, no past, no time. Like dreams.

This week's acrylic, when time went away with paint and canvas and palette knives.

Soon, at In Your Eye Studio and Gallery in Paseo Arts District. 

Future tense?--only in your imagination

"Future Tense," 5 x 5 acrylic on gallery-wrapped canvas

 

I'm reading "Why Time Flies," by Alan Burdock, a journalist for The New Yorker, who spent years(by our "time" studying time.

He divides his 280 page book into four chapters, The Hours, The Days, the Present and Why time flies. He actually discovered a 25th hour in a day in the Arctic. His is a "Mostly  Scientific Investigation" of how we measure time, what we think of it, how sunlight affects us and all organisms.

Extremely well-written and readable, the book will boggle your mind at the scientific, the history, the biologic, the physiology, the uninsured questions.

My conclusions so far is that linear tense-drive time as we perceive it is largely in our heads--past present and future.

For instance, what is "now"? We live in present tense, but how do you measure "now"? You can't, because by the time you reach the ed of this sentence, or even the next word, "now" has vanished. 

By the time you read the time on your watch or clock, it's already passed. Indeed, those around the world who coordinate time for this earth, for airlines and  your computers, know this. By the time that is "posted," it's already "past," not "now." Technically, you can't give an answer to "What time is it now?"

 Only Yahweh, who is timeless, couldn't say "I am that I am," not "I was" or "I will be." That is the definition of eternity, by the way. Past is only memories in our minds, and future is indefinite, what we imagine.

The biologic circadian rhythms of life on this earth and a rapidly expanding universe are something else, and we're also affected by that--when we sleep, when we're born, the list goes on.

So today's painting, "after" Christmas," and "before" tomorrow (the future), but not "now, comes out of reading, and my mind on our journey.

11 days 'til Christmas, as time passes

"Season of changes," 5 x 7 acrylic Christmas card

As winter approaches, and the moon announces another season, and thoughts turn to Christmas, change fills the air, as we pass though gates of time in our lives.

Remembering what is past, valuing thee present, hoping for a future, the season's bright holiday lights symbolize all three moods.

When you can see time

 

"Time Zones," 5 x 7 acrylic on canvas panel

Time--One of the many reasons I love the Southwest.

Out here,  the geology of this aging earth is always visible in dramatic landforms, constantly changing skies, light, colors and weather. 

So many stories laid one on top of the  other like the strata of sedimentary rocks, evidence of deep time. So many unanswered questions, like the mysteries of geologic unconformaties and fossils, gaps in knowledge of millions of years, all in front of our eyes. 

So many lessons of how recent we are, how small we are, how brief our lives. Out here  you can see forever,  into the universe and its daily reminders of time deeper than the rocks, the moon, the sun, the stars.

Thus today's little painting, part of what may be my desert series, with a multi-layered title, especially as another man-made month ends, and man-made time "zones" mean nothing--where you can see time.

 

Against the odds

"Against the Odds," 11 x 14 acrylic on canvas panel

 "Time's A'wasting," was oft repeated by one of my childhood comic strip heroes, Snuffy Smith. If you remember that, you're as old as I am. And aware that time is passing, and we're wasting it.

I am more aware of that sentiment in all phases of my life than ever these days as a new year and a birthday have passed recently.

My previous painting on this blog, a watercolor entitled "Time Was," was spontaneous, and fluid, like time. I'm fortunate and honored that Andrea Byers, Hawk's Landing, and  The Hideout, of Canyon, Texas, loved it and bought it.

As time has passed this year, I've been experimenting, learning acrylics, and that scene demanded another attempt, for the same reasons.

This painting is the result, while of the same subjects, vastly different. The watercolor was fresher, more fluid, proof to me of its beauty and originality.

This one is not a copy, but done with different emotions, palette knives and brushes for the textures of the subjects, different effects, capturing the essence of time past on the Great Plains.

I had trouble with the title to this one, but they embody survival, against the odds.

Where time ends

"The Shores of eternity," 5 x 7 Watercolor, 140 lb. Fabriano Artistico cold press paper

Against the endless expanse of the universe and eons of time, I can't help but dream of far away places, of roads not taken, of the vastness of oceans to be crossed. 

This travel-deprived year and more has taken its toll in so many ways on our  plans, wishes, physical and mental existence. I resent most missed opportunities to travel, to discover.

Time flows on, though actual survival has been a journey in itself, one I'm thankful for, aware that thousands have not taken it, instead slipping into a different journey to eternity where time ends. 

I think of standing on a beach watching oceans crashing against the shores of eroding lands, how small and insignificant we are in  creation, as we stand on the shores of our lives.

Thus the story of today's watercolor,  where eternal waves drench the sand and seconds cease to exist, the shores of eternity. 

The colors of time and eternity

"Fiery End," 5 x 7 140 lb. Fabriano Artistico cold press paper

"Twilight of Time," 5 x 7 140 lb, Fabriano Artistico cold press paper

"Genesis of Color," 5 x 7 140 lb. Fabriano Artistico cold press paper

Strange thoughts form when you watch science shows about the universe and creation, combined with horrifying wildfires scorching the West and much of Europe. Eternal, changing time juxtaposed (I've always wanted to use that word) with present tense.

Though according to Yahweh, there is only present tense, "I am that I am."

How do you paint time? What are the colors of time? Time began with light, either scientifically or spiritually, the source of life. And light is color.

The overpowering image that came to me is the inferno of those fires in this long hot summer, making me think of the end times when Sol  ends the earth, or when eternity begins.

Then I thought of twilight, before it happened, and then  when time and color  began, in creation.

So today's 5 x 7 abstract watercolors, moving backward in time, from the end, to  twilight and decay, to the beginning.

How time slips away

"How time slips away," 5 x 7 watercolor 300 lb d'Arhecs rough press

"Ain't it funny how time slips away" is one of my favorite songs, especially sung by Willie Nelson.

"It's been a long, long time" pretty well sums up life's journey, more so as I get older, and the emotion of times past, of living, of loss seem to especially fit his voice.

Many things bring it to my mind these days, especially for some reason on Sundays. Today, just sitting on the back porch, slight drizzle, moving clouds, bird song,  changing  greenery..."as time slips away." I also thought of Thomas Wolfe's novel, "Of Time and the River." 

What about today will you remember? Did you enjoy the present moments? 

Today's semi-abstract watercolor has been in my imagination for a while, and it just seemed to pour out, "as time slips away. 

Time slips away as August fades into September

"Time slips away, August to September," 5 1/2 by 8 1/2, 140 lb Fabriano Artistico extra white cold press paper

Another month slips away in a tumultuous year of pandemics in virus, racism, political chaos.
I started thinking about the country song as I tried to paint my last watercolor of August, "Funny how time slips away."
This was a slower month painting for me, as the times took their toll mentally, spiritually and creatively. In previous months, I'd averaged almost one a day, but not this month. I think today's is number 15, but I've been painting some larger ones.
If you scroll back in the blog, there seems to be a theme in most of them, a common connection though the subject varies. Can you spot it...linked to the toll of the times?
Back to that plaintive country song, written by Willie Nelson for Patsy Cline,  that haunts me:
"Hello there, my it's been a long time
How am I doin'? Well, I guess that I'm doin' fine
It's been so long now but it seems now it was only yesterday
It ain't it funny how time slips away...."
Funny how those words, that mood seems to fit these days, isn't it?
How do you paint August slipping into September in a year like this.
I've tried to paint color and subjects as a "balm in Gilead," without being trite, because we certainly need that.
But what came out of my brush today was decidedly abstract for the second time this month.
What's the story here? Just my reaction to time slipping away, where there is no certainty, no firm answers, where color and meaning bleed into each other.

(Yes, this one has been digitally enhanced, a little.)

A Geography-- Pandemic poetry-3

Into Autumn--
   "I am falling
    into the whirlpool
     of Time." --Ken Hada
Pick up this book for a journey into a geography of passing time, of living, of aging, of insights from landscapes and wildlife.
It's taken me almost a month to write that sentence about Okie Ken Hada's new book, Sunlight and Cedar, I suppose because it seems so personal. Poetry, and art, are more needed than ever  as an antidote to these chaotic times, to keep us sane, and human. 
  (Before I tell you more, let's get this out of the way to begin with--you can order it on Ken's website, $18.00 including shipping.  https://kenhada.org/ )
I expect most of these 80 poems in 103 pages were written before the pandemic since the book came out in May. But his words, imagery, and ability to transform an everyday topic into something timeless seems more important. 
Landscapes? Where would you like to travel on a new map? A donut shop? The zoo? Lake Eufaula? Oklahoma, Texas, Michigan, Boundary Waters, Chicago, Milwaukee?
Live Oaks of Texas--
  "They welcome, They invoke.
   A confessional, a shrine,
   they balance a world
   that doesn't always turn just right."
Wildlife? What would you like to see through new eyes? Badgers. bobcat, wolf, coyote, deer, sheep? Birds? Loons, hawks, geese, ducks, juncos, cardinal, pheasant?
Approaching Geese--
   "Clamoring, you hear
   them long before they
   appear." 
They're all here, and more, whether about playing dominos with  his father, or the magic of dawn or memories of a table.
Because I am aging, I think the dominant theme of this book has to do with passing time and aging, which I'm aware of every day. But that doesn't mean it's depressing. It's far more about living, surviving.
A review should entice readers, not bore them with long paragraphs and fancy words, especially when writing about the sparse language of poetry. The best way to do this is to offer you some snippets from Ken's poems. (By the way, all these lines and poems are copyrighted).
Time:
Chicory in the Ditches--
"We are made for the morning.
Starting over is something
we should get right."
Tomorrow--
(driving to play dominoes with his father on Christmas eve)
"Thoughts of holidays past
will come and go, fleetingly,
like birds at the feeder 
hanging just a few feet
from our game...."
"Tomorrow is a pensive word.
Both restless and hopeful."
Passing Solstice--
"...when you have passed the point of no return
you can tell yourself new lies,
making up new truths 
to keep the calendar moving."
Leafless Trees--
"Each winter
seems a bit longer." 
Peshtigo River--
(This is one of the most lyrical in the book)
"Slow me down, Peshtigo
Slow me down.
Let the current flow
past undisturbed."

Black Badgers--
"Everywhere I look, fall confronts me
The human scar-tainting this work,
this place I try to lease destiny"
Sepia--
"We are headed for that time
when color abandons us....
"Sepia is for memories--
a time before."
A Table--
"A table tells so much:
"...A table keeps the secrets of Time."
And if He is Lucky--
"...the rust of life..."
Other images:
Allegory in Blue--
"...like sausage sizzling
in a skillet on a sunny morning."
Frosty Morning--

"Without sun
      there is no shadow;
Without shadows,
     we are never whole." 
Reward--
"From where I sit
a jet flies through the Big Dipper
but nothing spills."
Donut Shop--
--"words
kneaded like dough
hand-stretched
just enough to hold
some flavor."
Morning Hawk--
"...she stalks death in the shadow of morning."
++
That's enough. Ray Bradbury wrote that poetry exercises muscles we don't use. It also helps us see. Ken Hada's poetry does that.
P.S. To read more of his poetry, click on my review of The River White , his book with his watercolor artist brother,  Duane. 

What's "valuable"?

"Cat convention," 5 x 7ish watercolor, 140 lb Fabriano Artistico extra white cold press

"Valuable" was today's #WorldWatercolorMonth prompt, which is wide open for interpretation.
You can tell what is valuable to most people by where they spend their money and time, what they "own."
But as you age, your priorities change with perspective and experience. If you're sane, you probably come to realize that what is most valuable in life isn't really in possessions.
Time becomes more valuable indeed, and  frivolous material items become a waste of breath.
That's why family, friends, relationships become more important, thus more valuable.
I can't paint family, but one of my treasures, a small thing really, is my daily cat convention. 
Early morning cup of coffee, quiet house, favorite chair. And here come Sophie and Snoops for some quality lap time, vying for who gets to sit on which leg. Soon they're purring,  soaking up my petting, and I get to sit there, be valued, and spend a few minutes just thinking, meditating, enjoying the present moment. 
It's valuable.

"Time Zones," watercolor sermon

"Time Zones," 10 1/2 by 13 watercolor, 300 lb. d'Arches cold press paper

Obsessed with time? Watching the seconds of life tick away? Hurrying toward eternity when the present, eternity is all we have, and thus miss it.
Think we're important and significant in the brief moments we inhabit the present, divided into "time zones" instead of "life zones"?
Not when you grow up like I did where geology shows you how small and brief humans are amid all of creation, and we dare to think we're in charge, and dominant, and control creation? Arrogance and ignorance of little people, and if you're a believer, blasphemy--that is literally "taking gods' names in vain," not profanity. 
I think that every time I view the magnificent geology, the strata, the raw landscapes of the Southwest and West, open books into "time."
Thus today's watercolor, "Time Zones."
Consider:
"You don’t even know what tomorrow will bring—what your life will be! For you are like smoke that appears for a little while, then vanishes."-- James 4:14
 "When I consider your heavens, the work of your fingers, the moon and the stars...what is man that you are mindful of him...."--Psalms 8: 3-4

Loose ends

"Loose Ends," 6 x 8 watercolor, rough Indian paper 

Life is full of loose ends.
Gloomy day thoughts. 
Things that just don't add up, or make sense. Friends and families and loves disconnected. Regrets.
Journeys unfinished. Thoughts interrupted. Dreams unfulfilled. Opportunities missed. People unmet. Mistakes uncorrected. Sins unforgiven. Books unread. Poems unwritten. Blessings unappreciated. Questions unanswered. 
Tattered laundry hanging on a clothes line, unraveling and ruffled by the breeze. 
Loose ends.

+

To which, Yahweh, tells Ursa:
"Be alive to the communion of time and chance. The present may not be all you want, but it is what you have, and it is enough to sustain you."
        --N. Scott Momaday, In the Bear's House

Stories in strata

Strata's Stories, 8 x 10 watercolor, 300 lb. d'Arches cold-press paper

Strata makes me happy. I love the Southwest and New Mexico where you can see so many relatively raw geologic land forms and the strata that compose them, rather than the softer landscapes molded by moisture and often hidden by vegetation.
Strata tells so many stories, indicates so much history and pre-history, prompts the imagination, reminds you of how brief our lives are against the span of eons of creation.  
The more strata, the more interesting the shapes, the older the landforms, and wider diversity of colors. 
What a metaphor for our lives. We all build up strata, and have it eroded, through the years, different levels and colors, molded by travels, experiences, locations, people, memories.
I've always been captivated, and been challenged by the great paintings of masters like Charlie Russell and others who often used this contrast of sunlight and shadow to make paintings jump off  the canvas. 
I wanted to experiment with the shapes and colors of day's end--an aging day against aging rocks--another metaphor indeed. Varied strata fascinates me, always catches my attention with its beauty, making me happy. First attempt.

(Daily #worldwatercolorgroup January paint happy things challenge.)

December--Sunset, Sunrise, Barn Again

Sunset, Sunrise, 5 by 7 watercolor card

Another trip around the sun...every day marks the end and beginning of that journey, no matter what the human calendar says.
But as December wanes and the month named for the two- faced Roman god Janus nears, we seem more aware of endings and beginnings.
I've painted versions of this aging barn many times this year, and I'm not sure what is the attraction, except maybe a fascination with the passing of time. Yesterday's and today's are the most recent, reminding me of the journeys we all travel as the earth makes its journey.
Six months ago, July's daily watercolor challenge included eight more versions, including the seasons, beginning July 6.

Oklahoma Sunrise, 5 by 7, July 6

Here are the links on my blog to each of those: "Oklahoma Sunset," "Oklahoma Winter," "Oklahoma Springtime," "Oklahoma Moonrise,"  "Oklahoma Dust  Bowl," "Green Leaves of Oklahoma," "Oklahoma Autumn."

(Day 27 of 31 December paintings)

"People may spend their whole lives climbing the ladder of success only to find, once they reach the top, that the ladder is leaning against the wrong wall."--Thomas Merton

As time slips away - watercolor

"As time slips away" watercolor, 5.5 ny 7.5, 300 lb. d'Arches

Time. Salvador Dali is a favorite artist of mine. His bizarre, surrealistic paintings, especially The Persistence of Memory  with the melted clocks speaks to me about the artificiality and tyranny of time that we worship and are enslaved by.
I'm reminded of Thomas Wolfe's Of Time and the River, and especially Willie Nelson's song "Gee, ain't it funny how time slips away" as I get older, and read more about Quantum physics, relativity, "time," and eternity.
 It is not important to "live long and prosper," but only to live well, because time only flows past us, as we are mired in present tense. Isn't that the meaning of "I Am that I Am"? Are we not all? Time is surreal. Are we just footprints in the drifting sand of time, our lives fading with each step? Have we enjoyed the feel of sand between our toes?
Time slips away. Memories. Longing. Today's watercolor. 

Day 22 of WorldWatercolorMonth challenge.

Palette--What are thecolorsof time?

"Well, hello there
My, it's been a long, long time
How am I doing?
Oh, I guess that I'm doing fine

It's been so long now,
But it seems now, that it was only yesterday
Gee, ain't it funny, how time slips away."

God and professors--paradise without tenure, conversation

 (An earlier version appeared six years ago)

God:  "Welcome to Heaven. Sorry for the memorized formula speech, but we have to read you your rights. You've got your welcome packet, met the lawn crew, read the rules, signed consent and release of liability forms, signed up for health care insurance like Congressmen get, been assigned mansions just over the hilltop with silver fixtures and  streets of gold,  got pass keys to the stables of The Four Horsemen, know where the cafeteria is, gone through training to use the Help-Desk, got security clearance from IT, and have been issued always-clean-no-wrinkle white robes. Any questions?"

Professors: "When is fall break and what office hours do we have to keep?"

God: "Give Me a break. There is no work here,  no office hours. If you can sing, you can join the choir. For others, like Clark, we'll find something else to occupy your time, oops--no time up here either--to keep you busy."

Professors: "It seems we've filled out a lot of paperwork and useless forms."

God: "I figured you university types had lots of experience with that, so I wanted you to feel at home. Don't worry, the forms will soon change and you can do them over."

Professors: "How come the angels have different colored robes? We see some with gold, silver, bronze,  and ours are white?"

God: "The gold robes are for Full angels, silver for Associate angels, bronze for Assistant angels, and white for Lecturers."

Professors: "What? We're full professors. We don't even speak to lecturers."

God: "Up here, we have a real 'higher-ed' system. It's based on service, not snobbery."

Professors: "Service? We've all been on committees and task forces and faculty senates and  ..."

God: "Not that kind of time-wasting mediocrity. We don't have any time to waste. Literally. Up here, service means actually helping people."

Professors: "So what about research?"

God: "Just ask Me."

Professors: "Would you mind repeating that construct so we can dialog  with you as to the impact of this concept vis-a-vis our cognitive post-modern theses..."

God: "Stop it. No profanity up here."

Professors: "About research, God. It was more important that teaching or service down there, and we're specialists in analyzing minutiae so we can publish it in academic journals nobody  reads."

God: "I repeat, if you want to find something out, or do research, just ask Me. I know the answers, all of them. Quantum physics? Philosophy? The name of Shakespeare's dog? --Yes, Shakespeare had a dog. Never would have found out that would you?--Why Conan was really fired?  How the so-called Religious Right's synapses misfire in their brains and the chemical analysis of that?  Literature? Did you know there's a lower level of Hell that Dante forgot about? The one reserved for micro-managing  administrators and poor teachers.

"Name your discipline--such a silly term for knowledge--and I can give you all the answers, and the statistical calculations and chi-squares, immediately.Where do you think 'Rain Man' got his talent?  I am a know-it-all. No brag, just fact. Nope, no need for 'research' up here, sorry.

"And publishing? That is so 18th Century. Nobody reads those 'journals'  anyway, much less understands all that obtuse academic jargon. They just gather dust.  I'm not interested. Now if you've written something for Mad Magazine, I might be, or if you have an I-phone ap for Mad, cool."

Professors: "Then why are we here?"

God: "Good question. I wonder that Myself. Well, you all must be pretty good teachers. Your dossiers show you actually liked students--even Freshmen. You helped them learn,  weren't boring, didn't talk down to them, learned their names, mentored them, didn't mind being disagreed with, kept your doors open for them, weren't rude or arrogant, kept your office hours, were on time, were usually prepared, had a sense of humor and were secure in challenging them and being challenged."

Professors: "So how do we get to move up to Full Angel. What about 'shared governance' and when do we get tenure?"

God: "I've got a lot of people who need a lot of help. Lists everywhere. Get busy."

Professors: "Uh, about  faculty senate and tenure...."

God: "There ain't no faculty senate or tenure up here. I don't 'share governance.' That's why I'm God. Don't have to. Satan has a faculty senate--meets  and talks forever and never gets anything done...modeled after your systems."

Professors: "No tenure in heaven. Why we thought...."

God: "Ever hear of the fallen angels? No. Hmm, I thought you were educated. You did know Milton plagiarized in 'Paradise Lost,' didn't you? Check out his source, an old book among many I recommend. I've got it on a podcast if you want visuals. It might be apocalyptic for you.

Professors: "Godda...er, Youdammit, God. Tenure...why that guarantees our academic freedom...."

God: "MeDammit. Look, If you want tenure, you can go to Hell. Never have to leave. Never will."

Equinox--where you can travel in time

Fajada Butte at dawn

Equinox--I always think of Chaco Canyon, having camped there a few  years ago on a personal pilgrimage. You travel 25 miles off the paved road in northern New Mexico, back in time. 

Actually, you travel back into time on those special days. 

I camped there one spring equinox, and about froze to death, but I'd do it again...to be alone, to see the stars, to see the universes glowing in the campfire coals, to write that poetry.

Silhouetted against the night sky is the bulk of Fajada Butte, where the old ones built the "sun dagger" on top of it a thousand years ago to accurately measure equinox and more, their guide to the seasons and life and the powers of the universe.

What follows is from an earlier post.

Camping at Chaco Canyon, watching time move in morning shadows on equinox

The sun blinds you, driving due east or west, morning or evening. You can almost feel the earth move under your feet, each day this September as the sun inches due west or east. It's not moving, but we are.
As urban dwellers, as citizens of the age of science, as people removed from nature, we may not notice, other than the inconvenient glare in the windshield or rear view mirrors early and late in the day.
Our media will announce the official start of autumn, but we miss the point that our ancestors, and those still in tune with the earth, know well.
Equinox--the day the night and day are of the same length, the slow tilt of the earth's axis that will bring the end of the planting seasons, the start of the harvest seasons, the coming of the cold seasons, the preparation for another year's "end."

Many people will gather at ancient sites like Stonehenge in England and Chaco Canyon in New Mexico to observe the day, to relive rituals lost in time, trying to retouch our instinctual past, and something more.
There is something powerful about the day, about those sites, that transcends science, but we've largely forgotten it the more removed we are from the physical world as we dwell in air conditioned cocoons. Perhaps, like our appendix and shortened tail bone, there is a vestigial element in our memory that calls out to us. I hope so.

'You can see time there, time moving, shadows moving up and down sandstone cliff faces'

Having camped in  Chaco on more than one spring equinox, I know you can see time there, time moving,  shadows moving up and down sandstone cliff faces. Those ancient "Anasazi" measured and marked with great accuracy over the years-- in feats of patience and civilization--the movements of the sun and moon. 
It may have been of necessity for an agricultural society, and it almost surely had religious significance. When you're that close to nature in  everyday existence and survival, the earth and universe are certainly alive and spiritual. You know who you are and how small you are. At night there, watching the stars wheel across the sky, you can almost  feel the earth move beneath your feet. 
You are not in charge of the world, or your life, but just a small part of it, and it's best to honor and respect that universe.
You can still feel that power at Chaco, and  dwell on what we "civilized" people have lost with science, as you watch the sun "come up," on equinox here in Oklahoma and elsewhere.

Mountain time

"Mountain Time"--9 by 9 watercolor, handmade Indian paper

Ed Abbey missed one mode of time in " Essays on Time." Yes, he writes of clock time, the most trivial. And of solar time, river time, of desert time, of biological  time, of star time, of poetry time, of love time.
I realized this last night, and had to paint what was inside. Mountain time.
Where centuries are mere nano-seconds of our time. Where people for ages have gone to get close to some bedrock spiritual and sometimes religious power they don't understand.
If you've been fortunate, mountains are in your blood. And for me, somewhere there's always a cabin attached.

So here is "Mountain Time":

Where glaciers move fast, 
Uplift  of spirit from bedrock
pouring forth life like water,
rising above mere existence
with deep roots.

Poetry of time

A tattoo of time on the arm of one of my favorite students, Lauren Vargas, taken at coffee this holiday season. This is living poetry.

The touch of a pen on paper sends messages both ways.

When you paint a copy of art, 

you begin to understand what the artist went through in creation.

Is this true in writing? In music?

Age means your feet hurt after walking on brick streets for hours.

How do you cheat age?

• Make love to a beautiful woman
• Exercise and eat well
• Spend money on grandchildren
• Play ring a-round-the-Rosie with grandchildren
• Read
• Travel someplace new
• Watch the backyard birds

When bad things happen--the antidotes:

Do something good to reassure yourself of humanity.

Remember your loves.

Watch children have fun.

I find much poetry depressing.

It stretches the mind.

I keep wondering how did the poets write it.

I'd like to be inside their heads. 

But then the words come from inside their souls.

My bare footprints vanish 

when the next wave washes up on the beach

Be sure to feel the sand 

between your toes

 and enjoy your footprint.

A woman's delicate

 barefoot print

 in wet sand

 breathes of mystery and sex

Maybe writing poetry is a child of being

 alone

…and in love

I must write to be who I am.