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June 26, 2013 - A poem about Cosmicity, Art


It was a green haloed moon
And nobody saw it but you
There were particles and mysteries
hanging in the air like necklace beads
And nobody saw this but you
What was seen was over soon
And nights like these are few
Some read articles or poetry
Some feel they must be reckless too
But you, you saw ions circling
Like bracelets on the wrist of night
Like halos round the moon
Only seen by you.


October 15, 2011 - A poem about Art

In the Gallery

We walked
around the art
and i forgot
to say
how proud
i have become
of you
we talked
about the lines
and chalk
what was black
or blue
and i forgot
to say
how proud
i have become
of you
we walked
around the art
about the role it plays
and i forgot to say
how very proud
i am
of you
but then came time
to travel on.


February 7, 2007 - A poem about Art

Nailed it.

Here come
the Hammermen
a-bang a-bang a-boom
with metal wails
and woodsmoke clan
here they come
working thru midnite again
pulsing sons
in echoplex halls -
all alleycat wails
with the sense of shadows
beckoning lotharios
with purple moan
of mannish boys.
Oh hear them call
publicans of England!
Hear now these
a-bang a-bang


January 17, 2007 - A poem about Art


He used to be an artist,
wanted to make gargoyles -
fashion them in modern ways.
Follow a plastic arts take
on the stone carver’s tradition.
He sought new monsters of narrative
like the snarling beasts of his time;
Ditko grins, sci-fi and circus freaks,
with Picasso’s garish push and pull.
He wanted positive repulsion
He reasoned we should all update
our ancients and their fears,
into a new, more relevant folksonomy.
His tutors questioned the concept,
didn’t get this new idea of his,
wanted to know why he was
being so post-modern.
He carried on.
Chalk walls became Photostats,
papers became scribbled and screwed,
iconography became stolen.
He built a temple to the strange
watched his reputation as an odd one grow.
Did not deny the darkness of his intent,
posessed, but ready.
His barbarians were simply made;
Two pinched-clay spitjoined bowls,
with brows and crooked nose bones,
puffy cheeks, lips and pointed chins
and ears, and crinkled skin.
Oh, and eyes like nemesis owls,
tenderly manipulated.
(just an afterthought).
You are no doubt aware.
“Clay is a fine-grained aggregate
of hydrous silicate particles”.
Difficult to train for most.
But this day, him and clay talked.
A conversation about creation and death,
about tenderness and fire,
about matching energies.
Him and clay reached an understanding.
He, had spoken of humanity’s climb
from the void, and the clay told how
to return to the underworld.
With stroke and roll and squeeze then,
the rebel earth accepted him
and something new, something
never real, never before.
What pleasure that day,
his strange day of ogres.
Who was the demon? Himself?
Or every dastard
now under his command?
Spitefully lain on an old wooden tray,
calling shock unto their saggy eyes
screeching woes to the worried.
So quickly he painted them -
coloured slips the tone and hue
like comic book inkings.
Colours shouldn’t show
until kiln-fired.
But he saw - he saw! he knew!
And he was ecstatic.
Oh how marvelous this had been -
just, perfect - like dreams made real
and grinning back at him.
It seemed, his mastery was complete,
but … something still read wrong.
The threads of this success,
torn by these ugly children of his,
but not monstrous anymore.
He liked them and it showed.
Too clever, too nice,
too crafted.
So he made a decision.
“Kill your babies” a writer said.
Well his, were fifteen dead puppies
raining down and squishing onto tarmac
That’s how they looked
when he threw them in the air -
and he watched them collapse
like giant lumps of splattering puke.
And he heard them too
wailing, wheezing - whistling out
through splits and fearful holes.
Gnarled and twisted, wrecked,
distorted, ruined.
But then he saw the beautiful. Yes!
Not his beauty, but a bludgeoned beauty,
grotesque beauty - rare and barely recognisable beauty.
Scary beauty, breath stealing beauty.
Gargoyle beauty, incredible -
utterly mesmerizing,
helpless beauty.

He could have been an artist.


September 14, 2006 - A poem about Art

Brick by Stone

It’s always been
about the music
that’s what built
the towers.
And when the music
starts the walls
will shake.


August 17, 2005 - A poem about Art


I have been thinking
about abstraction.
About huge brushed pools,
with meaning smudged -
blurs of pure sensation
beyond the frame.
There is a divine push
and colour pull defined
even in the ripple strokes,
like feather blown breaths
one step on from canvas pins,
from paint, from turpentine.
In this picture all expands and flows
away from mortal confine with confidence it goes,
with unhindered power that shakes the edge of things,
with desire to distillate our own living.
And there, composing the scene,
with big-sky eyes of refracted gaze,
a creator clearly shows how life can bend,
be skewed without context and earthly things,
or logic’s curse to manifest or represent.
And the more I see, the more I look,
the more I look, the more I know.
But still, I fail to fully understand.
Why do artists chase blue shadows
for mysterious intent?


August 2, 2005 - A poem about Art

Bad Gig.

I can’t hear the guitar
and the cymbals sound shrill.
The bass is just a mumble
and it saps my goodwill.
All the vocals sound bizarre
and nothing fits the bill,
and it makes me want to grumble
about these musical ills.
Never wanted to be a big star,
just jump above the mill
but all I do is stumble -
watch my pride go downhill.
But the next gig will be better
and I will recognise my own skill
and these vain doubts will crumble,
when again I feel the thrill.


July 17, 2005 - A poem about Art

Through a Lense.

I saw the dancer smile.
She couldn’t hide her happiness
for all of us who sat in front
in theatre aisles.
It was clear sat ten rows back -
seeing this clarity of moment.
It was all magnified and close -
spotlight precise in focus;
Sometimes, when we look for joy
we need help to see
more clearly.


June 25, 2005 - A poem about Art, Belief


Does a flame know when it burns?
Or of its brethren’s fellow toil?
All burn bright because they must
And all of this is down to trust.
Is this faith, or faith in destiny?
No call to idols and unproved deities,
Who comprehend these things that vex
Apart from Artist’s charcoal scratch.


August 21, 2004 - A poem about Art

Sculptor and Stone

When does nature turn to art?

Here he stands,
Raising hot dust from cold
Trying to fashion beauty
From brutish chisel
Strike and scratch.
Passioned blows
Seeking form, in form
Already there.

Not knowing when
These vain stabs cease
Makes him wonder.


August 18, 2004 - A poem about Words, Art

One Hand Applauds

Oh, the whispers we might hear
if we stayed silent in the noise
listening to the audience
and not the sound of
our own voice.


May 3, 2004 - A poem about Art


It’s a struggle staying painterly,
when a photograph might do.
Using paint straight out of the tube,
and not observing hue.
It’s hard to spot the brushstrokes,
in a captured point in time,
but harder still to contemplate,
which is most sublime.