The perception is mine,
though you may get sucked in
here is where I begin
a new expression
dropping sticks
they drip paint onto the canvas
in my own private Idaho
droplets on massive scales
tossed into the abyss
thinner smells its space
Or in a self-contained gateway
when in a walled in feeling, hesitant,
driven by tortuous tones
dispatched onto fabric
soaked into frantic fibers
contrasted construct
From need there are new ways,
when sober, quiet, less erratic
stable in a globular convex
arbitrary? Not at all,
drawn to the natural world
nature’s handyworks
there is order
an emotional splashing
where the eyes do not settle
rhythm spackles not of chaos
but evoking nature scapes
an orchestral overture
no finales,
where the eyes do not settle
I’ve captured summertime
Fall aside,
come one come all,
dance
alongside
My mind sees the heat of summer
it feeds layers of linage drifting destinations
adrift they map into not the meticulous
but the slop moppy hodgepodge
and through each droplet
I can give myself a true art buzz
provide a pivot in my perspective
and give gripping observations
I've a dire need to drip, drip
dripping something that appears
without knowing what’s going to happen
I’ve captured summer
it's Fall, on the cusp,
inside I dance
around my canvas
with you as an arc alongside
A Hopper, three Calders, a Pollack and more
We shared with our grandson today.
Some paintings and sculpture he’d not seen before
Were just waiting for us, on display.
In under an hour we checked it all out;
He enjoyed quite a bit of the art.
We will take him to other museums, no doubt;
He’ll remember when we are apart.
At the gift shop he picked out two small souvenirs
We were happy he wanted to buy.
As he grows, in his future, if artwork appears,
We might claim to know partially why.
getting out my paints
primary and secondary
starting slowly, but working my way to a frenzy
Pollack style.
tossing out a few dots
no satisfaction.
begin penciling in some lines
thinking animals as I do this.
an eagle, an elk, a monkey,
something fun, humorous, clever
lots of yellows, reds, and blues.
love the basics.
a little black, some white, more than usual
I like bright. Bright is the ruler of the scepter if you ask me.
tossing some random bulls into the fray
Pondering whether or not to leave it alone.
This is how I know it is finished.
I love it!
A rogue mosquito wasn't practicing
the fine art of social distancing
so with one vicious wallop
I painted a Jackson Pollock
and hung it in my art gallery
One Summer's eve - a voice was heard
The sunset was thrown together last minute
The colors were a sight to behold
Like paints on a palette - they were organized
The blues and the purples were next to the oranges and reds
The sky - like a Pollack was grand to behold
Some paint still dripping off of the brush
Form clouds and mountain-tops off in the distance
The calm before the storm
Waves crash onto the distant shore
Life is full of mysteries that we are meant to explore
Do you remember the first time I spoke to you?
I told you of a place that I would love to go
But I do not want to go there alone
So - I took you by the hand
And promised we would go together
I keep my promises - my dear
We have so much to do and so little time
I watch how the days come and go
I understand how little I really do know
The night is for dreamers
The day is for believers
Follow me as I show you the way
Dawn is right around the corner
One Summer's Eve - a voice was heard
And we stopped to listen to what it said
It told us to keep on dreaming
For some dreams will become realities
And some realities will become dreams
Like the alarming abandon
& disarray of Jackson Pollack,
equally beguiling disciplined
skills as in classically baroque
airs of Antonio Vivaldi,
'midst the wonderment and
wanderlust of a child,
I'm awe inspired & unfurled betwixt
your captivating demeanor
FILL-INS
An invitation for
the reader to use
imagination
Who? What?
two fine ladies rest
neath a bamboo
umbrella
they talk of a
third?
Fishermen
small boat at anchor
two men mend her
tattered sail
weather or old
age?
Pretty Song
on the dogwood
branches
scarlet tanager and
mate
what song do they
sing?
New York blizzard
snowy avenue
many people
like black streaks
to or from
their work?
Interesting
like Jackson Pollack
this mishmash of
dots and streaks
is there a message?
On the hike
a meadow a
stream
with scattered pines
wild flowers
let’s have a picnic
Baby Bear
so easy to love
he’s a shaggy, gray
kitty
always in the way
.
Playing off your intent,
writhing as you plunder
within the dank dampness,
the wanton wave
spray painting effigies like Pollack
pole axed in delight my pelvis rises…
With hands full of Adonis’s moons
parting the skin of your throat with pearly teeth,
clawing back, ripping wide the broad side
the effigy of a biblical God.
Breath warms the conical rises
fingers wind in the curls at the nape of neck,
the hollow of your throat, a salt lick
capping the wave brings froth
to the fecund cave of desire.
GETTING ON - autumn
three big white ducks
waddle into our backyard
omen?
like pollack splashes
flakes of gold crowd everywhere
sudden chill
a subtle change of mood
beautiful eerie silence
reflection
cat in the window
just looking out
sensing
The precipitous day drools on
yellow and slightly rancid, buttressed in buttery light
by a gray glazed glint from the Pacific.
Vertical skeletons of flesh and concrete bob
with a hallucinatory air,
some freshly coiffed and others surfaced
with the scar tissue of ages.
Halloween gone wild every mid-day,
minds of the plagiarist hordes
flesh-out the canvass with a living art, Pollack would adore.
Grunge sheik cements the souls
dressed radically with sentimental holes
escaped and escaping from
their conventional mold.
did Picasso dream up Guernica
while taking a *****& did Van Gogh
fantasize about Starry Night whilst
draining the lizard? how about
Pollack---though we have been
told via Ed Harris’ film (the only
art history anybody has anymore)
that he came upon the splatter by
accident, but how do we really know?
coulda’ been when he was
pinching a loaf---
coulda’ been
coulda’ been.
insert the name of your favorite
painter here:
_________________ &
ask yourself if s/he really got all
their inspiration from long walks
at night, heavy alcoholism, endless
orgies into the morning, a good
smack habit, brushing one’s teeth
with Absinthe, or, if in fact,
it may of just been an amazing idea
which revealed itself while
said artist was in deep potty
meditation.
saw in an interview with Tori Amos
once, that she got the idea for many of
her songs while she was sur les toilettes,
but then again, she believes in fairies...
the point is, all those ideas that come out
when you’re pissing,
just might be the next Sistine Chapel,
the next Notre Dame or the next
piece of brilliant architecture that our
species brings into being---
hopefully without said artist(s) being on
the goddamned church payroll.
When you gaze upon a Jackson Pollack for the first time
Instantly your mind begins to ponder
What was he thinking?
Where was he going with this?
Can you even call this art?
Who knows what he was thinking, it's not like you can ask him
Did he have to be going somewhere with it?
And yes, you can most definately call his work art.
Art, to many, has to have structure
Has to have specific meaning
But, honestly who declared those to be the rules.....
Even better, who dare slap rules onto art.
Jackson Pollack may have broken the "rules"
But in reality, he showed art in it's rawest form
Art is meant to be whatever you want it to be in that moment
When you gaze deep in the masterpiece of Pollack
Whatever you are feeling, whether it lys upon the surface
Or barried deep with in your subconscious
Your emotions and desires are releashed threw art
It is easy to quickly label art as something that you want it to be,
But just because you place a label on it,
Doesn't mean that you can block it's true statement
And that is whatever you need it to be
So go on, for those of you who seek the truth
Have a look, I dare ya
the tiger deflowers and lays to flat
a pride and hubris you've long kept intact
perched on thin bough
stripped cat of its meow
claws cut through bush, red earth and Muntjac
and teeth draw blood on a great Pollack canvas
dark as Bordeaux in a patterned Acanthus
a thick spray of clay
blooming arches and folds
the verdigris breath of a desert-night cold
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