What soap is to the body, my mother in law would say, tears are to the soul. For a long time I have felt that way. My mother in law would say, put on a believable façade. For a long time I have felt that way, Present the appropriate nod. Put on a believable façade, Guess I've known. Present the appropriate nod, the quiet heart alone. Guess I’ve known, Tears are to the soul, the quiet heart alone, what soap is to the body.
Ah, the vagaries of placement. Of being not quite in the correct place, Hovering again behind By just a bit too much, missing again, Out of contention, no chance at the cup. Left ever pushing Against a kudzu karma of tedium, aware My latitudes aren’t right, but not quite Accepting my longitudes. Ah the vacillations of situation. When one knows the correct place but Can’t get there, As there is just out of reach. No ribbon, no ring, no laurel leaf, Falling again untangling, Dangling
I am now used to waitresses not knowing where to park the odd person. Seven? Yes, I am the odd number, I am the odd five, odd three, odd one. Not knowing where to park the odd person, can’t she just sit at the bar by herself? I am the odd five, odd three, odd one. What to do, she still doesn’t fit. Can’t she just sit at the bar by herself? I am thankful friends include me, What to do, she still doesn’t fit, as I continue to figure life out. I am thankful friends include me, seven? Yes, I am the odd number. As I continue to figure life out, I am getting used to waitresses.
Grief, will you come talk to me? I could talk to you, I could say, You are getting too comfortable in my life, I don't want you always in my day. I could talk to you, I could say, Quit ruling my life, I don't want you always in my day. Not front and center, not constantly here. Quit ruling my life. Talk to me, I am listening. Not front and center, not constantly here. Change is so frightening. Talk to me, I am listening. You are getting too comfortable in my life, change is so frightening. Grief, will you come talk to me?
A glimpse Out the window, Sliver of a gift, Only five minutes. Out the window, White, black charcoal, Only five minutes, On gray toned paper. White, black charcoal, Dusty fingers moving On gray toned paper, A sweet, silvered moon. Dusty fingers moving, Sliver of a gift. A sweet, silvered moon, A glimpse.
For seven years I have slept without you With the memory of you By my side. And here on this night I sleep without our dogs, With now only the memory of them They two are gone and I am empty, Memory of all lost, you, them, dear In my heart.
The Studio at Line's End Farm is where I paint and try to find some joy again, and some equilibrium, not simple these days. One weblog records thoughts, ideas, methods and mixtures, palettes, observations, actually anything that intrigues me concerning my painting and working in the studio. Another observes only the horse in paintings that I find influential. The last are done for my sanity. All are my opinion only, open to other suggestions.