The Space Beneath the Boughs

of an old Blue Spruce
may become a santuary.
Voices are heard
but words are not.

Sounds like a deep
and distant drum
soothe quietly
in this cool
and airy blind.

One cannot live in
the space beneath
                   the boughs.

Like Pomegranates Grown

How lovely
the eyes that look back
at me across
the table
around the globe.

This voice that tells
me stories
I already know.
When you say them
they are new again.

Would you love me?

Almost I imagine
a world
a time in which that might
be possible.

We are closer now
but the distances
are very broad.

Will you come  to me?
Shall I come to you?

We are paired
like pomegranates grown
on a single tree
feeling each the other
but never able
to come round to the other side.

Will I love you?

I do
as one note loves another
vibrating
in a frequency
natural
sympathetic
complimentary
estranged.

Sometimes It Pays

As you see in a couple of these poems, it is often worthwhile to revisit a piece.

For me, the initial version is sometimes too wordy and less cohesive. When this happens, the meaning gets muddied and the reader may not feel the full import of what I want to say.

It's the same with my painting. I often begin with a pretty detailed sketch, but take it down to bare essentials - big shapes and colors - in order to keep the message plain and uncluttered.

I Missed Her Laughter

Palm trees rose
high into the gray-blue air.

Blonde hair
floated careless
on a salty breeze.

Even this late
in November the worst
she could say was
                 "Rain again?"