Wednesday, March 28, 2012


I wonder what it would be like
If the process, the creation of art
Were something that could be witnessed
Or exhibited; if the artist and her subject
Were there, in rooms behind glass
Windows, lining the halls of museums,
And we were all privy to the colors,
The sounds, the feelings that capture
That moment when the eyes meet the object,
The muse awakens, when souls or words
Connect over thin air. An invisible moment
Made visible, made beautiful to more eyes
Than those so keen to absorb the beauty
That is seen and preserve it in oils,
Acrylics, or lines on a page.

- began 3/4. Still in progress.


I can't be okay with all this silence.
Instead of a calm, settling quiet,
A gentle veil or shroud to muffle the
Aching noises of the day to day,
Your silence is a raging river, a vast
Hollow echo that magnifies every move
I make until I'm forced to face the vastness
Of the empty space I occupy.
I find silence in abundance here.
Draped across chairs, stacked
In piles on the kitchen table or inserted
Among the books scattered on the shelf,
Those put up in a hurry whose titles aren't
Even visible to me. Your silence has the
Smell of neglect, and a certain dampness
That hovers just above my sheets, yet
Disappears just before I touch them.
I sweep up your silence on all the days
It's not too hard to push the broom.
The silence you always carried in your mind
Is the silence that spilled out into my everyday,
The mess you'd left behind for me to clean,
And I'm faced constantly with the magnification
Of the hollow beating of its heart
(or is that my own?),
As all the sounds forced inward now are only
Covered by the muffled cries of what used to be

1/31, transcribed and edited 3/28

His hands

Another poem written about my grandfather, before he passed:

My grandfather still has a firm grip in his hands,
The hands that reared children, built homes,
Nourished strangers, travelled far, helping many;
The hands that took the lives of countless deer and game
To feed his family, while bringing new life to the world,
In children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren,
And thousands of souls through baptism and from his pulpit.
These hands rest now on the sides of his hospital bed,
The weight of the world pushing back on them
With a force finally greater than the force he was
With which to be reckoned. His hand still grips firm,
Even though his arms no longer keep himself afloat
In the sea of blankets, armchairs, wheelchairs,
And dinner trays. And I watch with subtle awe as
That hand, that held so much, that still grasps firm,
Finds its greatest comfort in the soft, tired, but true
Grip of another, as he smiles into her constant face
And slips into another perhaps less troubled sleep,
Still not letting go with his hands.