Here in suburbia - anywhere,
it's easy to be almost happy.
We have time and permission
to talk to neighbors, wave at strangers
as we stroll our leafy streets,
and
just over the county line,
Norman Rockwell is still painting
small town America
with its fields of dreams.
Nice here where folks are nice,
despite the occasional arrest
of a pastor or coach for pedophilia,
or the raids on that home
with its white picket fence,
the one neatly disguised;
that now and again
crack-house.
Peaceful here,
and
often over there
a serial killer sharpens his knives
but quietly,
so as not to disturb the early to bed,
half-dead.
table filled with joy
perfectly browned plump beauty
young and old hold hands
memories of times long past
as if by Norman Rockwell
I had to stop the car
to take another look.
It could have been a page
from Norman Rockwell’s book.
A farmhouse painted white,
a porch with rocking chairs,
chickens in the barnyard
scratching for their fare.
Tousled red-haired boy
freckled face and all
chasing yellow puppy
running with his ball.
Tiny girl in pinafore
blond curly hair in bows
sitting on the porch steps,
dolls all set in rows.
Mother at the clothesline
hanging sheets with pins.
You almost see them flapping
and snapping in the wind.
In fenced-in field adjoining,
a mare with new-born foal,
white blaze upon her forehead,
takes a morning stroll.
Painting ~ Freedom From Want ~ painted by Norman Rockwell
A skin and nerve disease unspeakable -
outcast, unclean; they came to be restored.
In all, ten lepers Jesus healed in full
but only one went back to thank the Lord.
November brings a holiday most grand
for it reminds us of God's bounty giv'n.
Serenity of blessings in our land -
with gratitude, we turn our eyes t'wards heav'n.
Ten holidays from work I get each year.
What sets apart Thanksgiving from the rest?
Awakening of gratitude sincere,
and praising God for all that He has blest.
Remembering the wealth of gifts divine,
may I be like the one and not the nine.
written 26 Aug 2020
I saw a painting as a younger man;
some artwork I enjoyed - this not so much.
Not ready yet for abstract, off I ran
to view portraits, landscapes, still lifes and such.
A decade later, we met up again;
I still was not sure what there was to see.
Less hurried, I felt more receptive then.
"My kid could paint this", scoffed a man near me.
I'm sixty now, and see with dimmer eyes
yet now they catch things I missed in my youth.
I gaze, and let a narrative arise -
it asks me: what is beauty, life, and truth?
Therein consists the artist's foremost task:
to raise the questions we have yet to ask.
// An ekphrasis on the painting "The Connoisseur"
by American painter Norman Rockwell //
Previous winners were Elie Wiesel,
Mother Teresa, Bob Hope,
Norman Rockwell, Rosa Parks,
Walt Disney and a Pope*…
B.B.King and Yo Yo Ma,
Dylan and Pearl Bailey,
Frank Sinatra, E.B. White,
Tom Hanks and Alvin Ailey…
Meryl Streep and I.M. Pei,
Spielberg and De Niro,
Harper Lee, Casals, Aretha –
Every one a hero.
Shockingly, another name’s
Been added to the list,
With whom most honorees, I think,
Would hate to coexist.
For if you read Rush Limbaugh’s quotes,
So shameful, cruel and mean,
You likely would agree his presence
In that group’s obscene.
It should have come as no surprise
For such a bad decision
Is what’s to be expected from
The master of division.
*Pope John XXIII
it's like a norman rockwell photo
this quaint little town not far away
where white picket fences stand
banners and flags wave in the breeze
every lamppost tells a tale
of their proud, unforgotten heroes
faces and stories reclaimed
on the same streets they once roamed
it's a happy little town
that bleeds in red, white and blue
where patriotism still stands
on the edge of every street
of this proud american town
remembering those who gave their life
so they could proclaim their freedom
The frightful winter solstice approaches
with an opaque snow globe life intertwine.
Stars sprinkle early, romance encroaches
upon one headstrong to dread wintertime.
Power poles are overthrown by wind gusts
but the fireplace roars in competition.
Soon the living room temperature adjusts
to our own Norman Rockwell rendition.
Candles flicker like a lover's whisper,
tickling walls with whimsical illusions,
becoming purer, becoming crisper
with cinnamon swirled laughter fusions.
Board games played on the dining room table
welcome nostalgic, restorative thoughts
which begin to inspire and enable
closeness revived, warm poetic jots.
12-18-19
Scratchy, scratchy, what's that sound,
Atop my home space, high and round?
Could there be one self-served mouse,
Schemed to steal my sweet, dry house?
No, those sounds don't seem that soft,
For some such small rodent, there aloft.
Could be, large birds of prey thus wait,
To bring me sure, their sweet, sad fate.
Or maybe, through some so-bright sky,
Dark clouds have come to weep and cry,
Thus pattered, loud, my walls and roof,
To make this day quite rummage-proof.
Or maybe, perhaps - oh, please let it be -
One bright red squirrel like me, but she?
I'll listen and wait, and quite quietly hide,
As my red squirrel heart beats fast inside.
For all I can see through the door in my keg,
Is paper and a puppy, and a little boy's leg,
But a home is home, and I'll hold mine tight,
Praying for a she-squirrel, wrong ... or write!
Written and submitted on October 18, 2019
For the "Realism Art" Poetry Contest
Eve Roper, Sponsor.
( I chose Norman Rockwell painting/illustration number two. "Write" in the last line is mis-spelled intentionally, as reference to the boy's activities )
The first snow of the winter,
And it's really coming down.
Large geometric flakes,
Drift slowly to the ground.
Painting trees and fences,
In garlands of dazzling white.
Making all it touches,
A beautiful sparkling sight.
A Norman Rockwell post card,
Bringing memories of youth.
Dreams of bygone days of yore,
Nostalgic scenes to soothe.
Rushing out I lift my face,
To catch flakes on my tongue,
And once more I'm ten years old,
Playing, having fun.
Building snowmen, throwing snow,
Sliding down a hill,
I'm cold, I'm wet and I feel great,
Even through the chill.
The first snow of the season.
It's falling faster now,
Making this a fairy land,
A picture post card town.
I want to live in a Norman Rockwell painting
Where I'm surrounded by the simple times
If you don't know what I mean let me explain it
It consists of front porch swings and Mom's apple pie
Sunday afternoons in Grandma's kitchen
Lazy fishing days down by the lake
Or in a Soda Shop drinking Chocolate Malts with cherries on top
As I while away the day Norman's way
Riding bikes down hills the whole time laughing
Cowboys, Indians, and Pirates all in one day
With sunsets painted red and no strangers met
No secrets kept to wanna give away
Life on parade the American way
Pride in your family and friends
Helping each other no matter race, creed, or color
Starting each meal out with an amen
Picnics at the park, hot dogs and gaming
Potato sack and three-legged racing
Nothing like today's grind taxing both the heart and mind
Which to me desperately needs replacing
With life in a Norman Rockwell painting
Poet: Ken Jordan
Poem: Cotati
Edited by: Sparkle Jordan
written: October/2017
Cotati
Is
simply
simplicity profound.
A lost in time
picturesque throwback town.
Call it
a painting; a mural
a marvel Norman Rockwell,
would brush,
and
be proud -
It’s
Pacific Coast, Seaweed Toast,
Organic Roast
Vegan Pie, and Sweet Potato Fries -
Cotati
Is
simply
simplicity profound -
It’s
Rice Bowls, Fishing holes, Tadpoles,
Barefoot folks,
Old stagecoach, Train Depots,
Cypress trees, Tie-Dye Tees -
It’s Cotati
Where winter feels like
Spring!
It’s
Daffodils, Honey Bees, Lily Ponds,
and Sunbeams,......
April flowers
Intermittent showers -
Everywhere,
wild grass is green;
Chicks chirping
Frogs jumping
Folks set'n on porch swings -
Birds singing
Grasshoppers leaping;
Swimmers surfing
It's Cotati;
Kites flying
Fish frying -
Church bells ringing
Old folks walking
Children playing
Horses dancing
And
Box cars moving slow
to the old depot -
Beauty
is this town
on the west coast.
Cotati
is
Simply
simplicity profound
Copyright (c)., Ken Jordan 2017
Although I'm young am tired you see
from all the scheduled laborious activities
stepmother decided to step out momentarily
with stepsisters going on a ball shopping spree,
With me home alone to do arduous tasks
such as making candles from the bees wax
washing the dishes, sweeping and making the beds
making all the meals which I fear they will dread,
Growing and cultivating the vegetable garden
milking the cows out in the barn pen
basically waiting on the step family hand and foot
cleaning out the fireplace with all of the soot,
Gossip lately about going to the prince's ball
always ridiculing me like I'm just a serf rag doll
saying I'm not good enough to go with them
to stay home and sweep and look after the pets,
So as I take a break from all of the housework
I enjoy the peace and quiet for all that it's worth
sitting here in my chair with my broom by my side
daydreaming of one day becoming the prince's bride.
9-1-17
Cinderella by Norman Rockwell
Last night I dreamt you saw me
Really saw me for the first time
Not who you thought I should be
But the real me
I danced in front of you
Not caring what you thought
No adult lessons needing to be taught
I embraced the person I am instead of what one I'm not
Unafraid, unashamed
I watched you smile
I felt my childish happy for a while
You were not there to play grownup games
What I lacked was not a source of your shame
For once I didn't feel like I was to blame
I was proud instead of ashamed of my name
I watched as you delighted in me
Oh what a dream
Like the cherry on top of a dollop of cream
My nirvanah, my elusive stream
Then I woke up to see your face
No joy there not a trace
I was disappointed too
I continued hiding me and you were still you
So instead, we continued like every day
Me not being me and sad hateful old you!
For Becca's Contest.
Sorry, it's not a Norman Rockwell type relationship.
Hello Soup friends, do not worry I am not writing about a rocky
marriage but rather about the expectations of a father for his son.
This has long passed but I drew on this childhood memory for this contest.
Along the urban stream at the end
of a perfect Saturday,
I sit and watch the sun go down.
I watch below me as a father and
his young son pick their way gingerly
along the rocks of a still fast flowing stream.
They are looking for treasures
brought downstream by the previous week's storms.
The father, tall, thin, and balding,
hair the red side of blond helps
the red haired son negotiate the rocks.
They are striking in the setting sun.
The father periodically points out some
hidden find in some rocky notch
or crevice.
I am thinking who could frame
such an idyllic theme in our present era,
or even care to?
It is a Norman Rockwell cover!
No one comparable or even close
in todays garish din.
He could stop a moment,
and celebrate ordinary folks
without sarcasm,
no qualifying mote,
no sugary note.
A cool breeze kicks up as the earth cools
and my dog and I leave the scene and
race the fading sunlight
home.
Each step reverberates...
There are no Norman Rockwell covers.
There are no Norman Rockwell covers.
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