Autumn mists & mellow fruitfulness

The sun paints the last of the green,

before the musk sets the scene.

 

And wraps will snug deep

among the chasing feet.

 

Time to squirrel away

kept for another day.

 

Memories made and journeys taken

but some relationships forsaken.

 

Hoarfrost comes and claps its hands

showering crystals in its pans.

 

Where diamonds run around the dirt

and cause a line on the forest skirt.

 

A feral runs through grubber's bore

and mixes up the winter's store.

 

Be ready then for the season's shroud

to make the senses shout out loud.

 

Against the rack of skins unfold

the tales and stories of old.

 

Let it rest among the dross

there's much to make the dreamer's loss.

 

 

 

 

 

 

My nib touches the paper,
cautiously.

It isn't the absence,
much more.

Why am I here, what prompted
the rush?

Among the dreams and shattered
glass.

The pats upon a thousand
shoulders.

The hesitant ink is more
than I can bear.

It is not me, or part of me,
I do not see.

Of that I used to take
some solace.

But now, what, when the lot is no more
than fills a pot.

A place to catch it all, the deritirius
of years gone by.

I dream, another dream, and wish them all
goodbye.

They come to haunt me still,
as if I care.

So let us sleep, that's all I ask,
that's not much.

And elsewhere in this serried land
they try to bang the big bang.

What fools, what stupid, stupid men,
if only they knew.

It's here inside this skull, of mine,
of yours, of everyone.

That quietly there collide, and cause a bang,
of sorts.

And holes too, of that we can be sure,
too many to mention.

It's all the wrong end of the telescope,
held like an upside down syringe.

Poisioning us with nauseous liquid,
someone's bile.

Until we spit back no more,
we've had our fill.

Enough to make us want no more,
but memory more.

Have I said enough, or should I
go on ?

Find the joy and nectar full,
of sweet moments.

That will be an echo chamber
of words well said.

And wash away the plenty
that shouldn't have been said.

A return to the written word

 

Powerful paintings

Our wonderful daughter-in-law has just had early success with her new career as an artist, see: www.katson.blogspot.com.

 

This reminded me of the power of paintings and here is an example with this painting of Ezra Pound, that I bought many years ago. It is in style of the shroud at Turin.

 

Kathy's paintings of people are much warmer and full of humanity; it is as though you can reach out and hug them. One of the first paintings that Kathy has sold shows a man on a road. You don't know where the road is going but seems to be a metaphor for life that has rushed by.

 

Whereas, the man himself, seems to have all life etched on his face. He is not weary, he is simply reflecting on his life, possibly on the life of others. As we look closer, we realise the man is standing on the road itself and yet he is stronger than the road, more powerful in a way that reflects his personality above the swell of life. In the end it may be a question of whether he is there, or not, or more, obviously, an example of reflection.

 

This to me this is the essence of paintings, so much more is there than is initially seen and more that can be discovered each time. And, biased though I am, Kathy's pictures bring this out again and again. A reaffirmation of life, a celebration of life, an example of paintings being more powerful than a snapshot of life.

 

Keep up the good work Kathy!