‘nice to meet you‘
the greeter said with insincerity
long as a dog’s tongue
‘have a seat next to
someone you might
like to get to know tonight‘
the room was hard
the acoustics adust
the floor uneven
the walls opaque
we gathered in a fish tank
uneasy with present company
hungry for commitment
unwilling to remove our jackets
or seek each other’s eyes
the experience was twitching
the chairs magnificent
the seats were cold~
if asked, she—-
the woman without a head—-
might have responded
with intoned brevity:
« cacophony »
leaving her interrogator
either quite satisfied or
(more likely) edgy and wanting,
therefore a passing observer might
have employed quickened steps
might have averted a glance
indeed full face to hide
an inevitable smirk,
for some caught by fate
dead centre amid events
having nothing to do with them
do often enjoy the
exchanges between others,
especially if spiced with dynamics of peril.
All is conjecture though,
isn’t it, when an exchange
is no exchange at all,
when a question rises yet
remains unuttered except within
an inquisitor’s mind.
Potential answers flit and bang off walls
as bewildered synapses
there may be temporary destabilization
fear or disgust.
For one of courage though,
with curiosity or the patience to lean in,
there may be a flooding
observation—even an epiphany—light
enough to see, though just a sprite,
no longer a head
something else emerging
from unknown seed
something bold and green and lithe
reaching beyond the prison of skulls
having discarded the heavy robes
collected in the rotting carts of Time
answering to none but clarity,
the melody of eternal silence
a new formula for life~
have you
ever wished
you had
your own
Little Chair
safe inside
an impenetrable
glass dome
shiny clear
could it
become your
comfort place
would it
be like
another home
a chair
a dome
you alone
who might
approach your
Steel Stairs
step light
hoping for
interaction while
you sit
naming all
the stars~
so easy just to stay home
rapt in my own attention
yet to thrive outside
of a dream shouldn’t a person sometime
take a stroll? chance to change
sigh and step out of comfort’s reverie
if just to look at what lies out there
Maybe.
I aimed for the gallery
I heard the show would be one
worthy of effort
of wearing boots
combing hair (sort of)
cake wine and talking
walking into crowds
noting timbre of voices
sifting through shapes and heat
but the rain—
here it rains a lot and so what?
I have a red umbrella
but parking—
there’s patience and an app for that
enroute I met the young one
a help me sign and an upturned hat
five bucks in his hand to appear I am kind
oh yes art is good for a soul
even if rain blurs my view
it gifts opportunity to think
who designed that red brick archway
maybe in summer an installation
can feature there.
please do not talk to me when I am
gazing into artworks
taking in means me taking time
sometimes falling or slipping inside
artists speak deep through their works
but you must be quiet to hear
The gallery is alive
a population rich with wordless
beauty celebration exploration provocation
help cries questions remembrance exaltation
I signed the book illegibly
identity being less important than
the sincerity of my response
I nicked one more chocolate covered
strawberry before my exit
the man resting under his sleeping bag
in that doorway seemed
happy to see me🪶
when I passed the tree I nearly missed
the installation an artist of subtlety placed
for the observant to ponder
wandering through settings of abundance
it’s easy to miss details
things of silent existence
not shouting for attention
only being
their invitation open for acceptance or
passed without recognition
(nothing is lost if unseen)
As I leaned under the leafy canopy
I thought I heard a song
maybe the artist’s voice or maybe the tree’s
we are all part of this now I can see
trees artful heartists
our roots holding the key🪶
Peace to all who enter
Banner that above each hall
I roll my sister toward
a sunshine room
There are so few places here to roam
She talks more or less nonsense than
before she crossed the line
Was it by choice or was she pushed
like Thompson’s Pavanne
No one knows or speaks aloud
I must have been looking elsewhere
on that day
Caught the remainder change rolling my way
I miss my sister—
Where has she gone?
A rolling complication
Two wide eyed blues afraid of what is
What’s to come what may may not be
Cracked fragments rising falling memory
Drummers dance to rhythms of their
nameless mountain valley reverie
Unsigned solace
I hear voices of heart song offerings
open hands drawing grace in unity
We look with eyes of thoughts and dream
She asks me if I see the baby crying in the sky🪶
I first see them from a distance
Nine is the number I favour—
even focused how my mind wanders—
Three pink marble casts of women
and one Other in front
Three Ages
is three all we have I wonder
And if so in which age do I now occupy (Oh, I think I know)
standing while looking through the arch?
The room is quiet
its occupants art from the gifted whose
names I mostly until today have not known
Yes— the security guard breathes here with me
but he too is art
Still and quiet, occupying a
controlled temperature (and mannered) corner
A high seated black chair
I am movement, looking
Gliding Ghost passing through
I linger here for the sculptures—
Woman: Chrysalis for puberty
Coquetry for youth
Pomegranate Flower for maturity
The artist is Inurria, do you know him?
Resting on his side, though ‘resting’
fails to accurately describe the desperation
etched into the figure’s face,
is Castaway, agony and fear holding to the remains
of a ship’s mast
The faces of the Women are serene
placid cool
Or confident
How interpretation
How knowledge or pretence of it
How Art
How expression and experience
alters us
Shifts and realigns our consideration going forward
My eyes scan the works of others
These rooms are Many
but I see again and again the Woman
the Women in pink marble
and the one Man in peril clinging to safety
naked
I carry them with me through the heavy glass doors
of the gallery
Into the blinding sunlight
of the public street🪶
one human hand
intentions and inventions
touching the world🪶
I make plans
I recognize
The Importance of Getting Out
I make plans
I get ready
or imagine what that means
Ready
I change my mind
Next time—
Friday I let pass
Saturday I look:
Yes Maybe maybe
I drive downtown
round and round
Is it okay
if I park upside down
Think to give up
I don’t mind
giving up
I’ll be late
how rude
Best go back home
pretend I went
Report how grand
was that cool event
How does this end
I park
I walk
I take it in
Art and Film
creative compassion
What grace
and a flimsy green empty chair
the gallery is hot
One opportunity
the night I went anyway
Sitting with Grace
a minor major Premiere
I was there
I was there
I’m still there🪶
Between pieces suspended
voices of past occupants whisper
from red brick walls