Caressing my frontal lobe slowly probing,nudging
Whispering thoughts to the fore
Seeping slowly, thoughts-profound
Hints of genious peeking from grey matter...
-Distraction-
Scares them away
Leaving only an after-taste, a hint, wispy like
The memory of a rose's smell.
Gently retreating emotive thought carrying with it,
The insight of dreams.
John Reed Clark 8-22-94
Friday, December 18, 2009
Friday, December 11, 2009
My Painter
The canvas came alive-more and more
Stroke after stroke
The illiterate girl, with no voice smiled
as she painted.
Dab of Brilliant yellow on a summer hat
Touch of coffee brown on his shoes
The picture moved of its own accord
And my girl with no voice, smiled.
The picture’s couple was hand in hand
Smiles on them both.
The painter coyly accepted my praise.
The scene developed more-the background came to fore
The river was their handrail as love consumed them.
Off in the distance a bridge, large and
graceful, spanned the gentle river.
And upon the pine green bench were two birds, leaning close
The woman in the painting was
Looking at them, still smiling that smile
Of satisfied love.
And the man, with his coffee brown shoes
Held the same smile, also gazing at the birds.
The girl, my painter, cleaned her brush
And this time caressed the sky
With subtle blues, whites, tinges of grey
And a splash of lavender all beautiful and in harmony.
My hand on her shoulder as she
moved the brush, feeling the strength, the will in her warm body.
As my Illiterate silent genious
Stared at me, I noted the smile, it was
The same as that in the picture.
We met, our lips, our bodies, our souls.
When the conscious mind was again mine to control
I looked around, and smiled.
She was with me hand in hand
As we looked at the birds and the
River. The sky was an incredible lavender, blue, and white.
I felt a tickling at my feet, and
Out of the corner of my eye, I witnessed
A large paint brush coloring my shoes, a
Coffee brown.
john reed clark 9/9/92
Stroke after stroke
The illiterate girl, with no voice smiled
as she painted.
Dab of Brilliant yellow on a summer hat
Touch of coffee brown on his shoes
The picture moved of its own accord
And my girl with no voice, smiled.
The picture’s couple was hand in hand
Smiles on them both.
The painter coyly accepted my praise.
The scene developed more-the background came to fore
The river was their handrail as love consumed them.
Off in the distance a bridge, large and
graceful, spanned the gentle river.
And upon the pine green bench were two birds, leaning close
The woman in the painting was
Looking at them, still smiling that smile
Of satisfied love.
And the man, with his coffee brown shoes
Held the same smile, also gazing at the birds.
The girl, my painter, cleaned her brush
And this time caressed the sky
With subtle blues, whites, tinges of grey
And a splash of lavender all beautiful and in harmony.
My hand on her shoulder as she
moved the brush, feeling the strength, the will in her warm body.
As my Illiterate silent genious
Stared at me, I noted the smile, it was
The same as that in the picture.
We met, our lips, our bodies, our souls.
When the conscious mind was again mine to control
I looked around, and smiled.
She was with me hand in hand
As we looked at the birds and the
River. The sky was an incredible lavender, blue, and white.
I felt a tickling at my feet, and
Out of the corner of my eye, I witnessed
A large paint brush coloring my shoes, a
Coffee brown.
john reed clark 9/9/92
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
Cross To Bear
Wallow hatchling
Continue, flap your featherless wings
Attempt to soar
But falter too busy-
Watching your siblings-coward
Watching them
Judging them
Attacking them
Contempt and envy your only caw.
Too busy-to
Walk across the street
Can’t even imagine what it looks like
Let alone ask-why?
Clutch mates are urged on-by you!
Only to flatten on pavement
As you snicker-breathing exhaust.
You-proud; with shallow victory,
Still haven’t got a clue
Why they tried to cross the road.
jrc 5-6-96
edited 12-08-2009
Continue, flap your featherless wings
Attempt to soar
But falter too busy-
Watching your siblings-coward
Watching them
Judging them
Attacking them
Contempt and envy your only caw.
Too busy-to
Walk across the street
Can’t even imagine what it looks like
Let alone ask-why?
Clutch mates are urged on-by you!
Only to flatten on pavement
As you snicker-breathing exhaust.
You-proud; with shallow victory,
Still haven’t got a clue
Why they tried to cross the road.
jrc 5-6-96
edited 12-08-2009
Saturday, November 28, 2009
Too Much
Too Much
Too many ideas rattled in the little lady’s head. There was shopping to do, clothes to find, perhaps some lunch, a brief chat with the man at the market before he told her to move along, a visit with Squishy, her friend on Vine St. But before any of these happened, the little lady had to straighten up. The clothes had to be folded, the food secured out of sight, and cart’s left front wheel had to be freed up again. It was sticking lately. She left home, carefully shutting the corrugated door flap, pulling the plastic awning down and tucking it under a heavy rock. It was always good to leave the house…
johnreedclark 10/15/96
Too many ideas rattled in the little lady’s head. There was shopping to do, clothes to find, perhaps some lunch, a brief chat with the man at the market before he told her to move along, a visit with Squishy, her friend on Vine St. But before any of these happened, the little lady had to straighten up. The clothes had to be folded, the food secured out of sight, and cart’s left front wheel had to be freed up again. It was sticking lately. She left home, carefully shutting the corrugated door flap, pulling the plastic awning down and tucking it under a heavy rock. It was always good to leave the house…
johnreedclark 10/15/96
Friday, November 27, 2009
Fresh Paint
A man on a park bench feeds all the birds
Listens to laughing and 'fun-having' kids
His eyes unaware of the tears in his furrows
His eyebrows all bushy they block the bright sun
Remembrance of when he needed no walker
A nod to the youth that spins on the swing
His lips tremble lightly with head tilted sideways
His shoulders they sag from the weight of the world
Sore feet in brown boots with unmatching laces
Throb from the pain also felt in his hips
A fine classy lady sits gently at one side
Whispers and talks with polite elegance
With respect he looks deep into her spirit-like eyes
And talks with her gladly as soul inside cries
All alone in this world with old stained tweed jacket
She visits him often and converses all day
The laughter of kids is warm and so heartfelt
He misses his family and so names the birds
Hours pass quickly the days are a blur now
The children all laugh as he talks to himself
He fondly remembers his own spinning swing
And forgives the children as pigeons are fed
A day not too far now the birds they go hungry
And must learn to fend and to feed for themselves
No longer a walker sits next to the park bench
An elegant spirit no longer says hi
The laughter keeps on but echoes to no ear
Even swing spinning no longer seems fun
The child sits lonely on motionless swing set
Unaware of the tear which seeps from his eye
johnreedclark 2/2/05
Listens to laughing and 'fun-having' kids
His eyes unaware of the tears in his furrows
His eyebrows all bushy they block the bright sun
Remembrance of when he needed no walker
A nod to the youth that spins on the swing
His lips tremble lightly with head tilted sideways
His shoulders they sag from the weight of the world
Sore feet in brown boots with unmatching laces
Throb from the pain also felt in his hips
A fine classy lady sits gently at one side
Whispers and talks with polite elegance
With respect he looks deep into her spirit-like eyes
And talks with her gladly as soul inside cries
All alone in this world with old stained tweed jacket
She visits him often and converses all day
The laughter of kids is warm and so heartfelt
He misses his family and so names the birds
Hours pass quickly the days are a blur now
The children all laugh as he talks to himself
He fondly remembers his own spinning swing
And forgives the children as pigeons are fed
A day not too far now the birds they go hungry
And must learn to fend and to feed for themselves
No longer a walker sits next to the park bench
An elegant spirit no longer says hi
The laughter keeps on but echoes to no ear
Even swing spinning no longer seems fun
The child sits lonely on motionless swing set
Unaware of the tear which seeps from his eye
johnreedclark 2/2/05
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Birthers
The original post here has been deleted. I want to de-politicize this blog as much as possible. Enjoy the site. Quick read something up or down the page before I begin to rant again.....grumble....
Friday, November 20, 2009
I'm Rubber, You're Glue*
Name calling. Childish, immature,
pissing contest
Advancing nothing
Congress
*post edited based on reader comment! Thanks (I use the word "Your" instead of "You're" in the title). That's what happens when you type too fast. Sorry
pissing contest
Advancing nothing
Congress
*post edited based on reader comment! Thanks (I use the word "Your" instead of "You're" in the title). That's what happens when you type too fast. Sorry
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Mushroom Goddess
My grandfather once told me he was happy to be retired. He was able to go to the horse track any time he wanted. I saw a bit of depth in those still sharp eyes. I saw sadness. In those pools echoed the regret of deeds undone. Of potential never realized. Of worth not cashed in.
I visited grandpa years later. It's amazing how quickly time passes. He was older, I was in my 20's. It was his birthday, 80 years old. We gathered around in a sterile, barren room with overly used long tables, the type you see at public functions with so much tape remnants, and straggly bits of crepe paper clinging to the memory of some party.
This table had bits of some earlier meal shared by many, as the previous occupants of this room had been less than fastidious. Grease still shined in a non-pattern across one section of the table, while my end held the uncoveted fallen of hastily eaten pizza.
A mushroom lay posed, perfectly cut, decorated with the right amount of sauce, drizzled with a dash of cheese. An amazing gift from the Mushroom Goddess, it was left here, uncared for, uncleaned, unpraised.
I looked at grandpa, blowing out his candles as he looked at so many strangers. His robe was open, his diaper sagged.
We were all uncomfortable, and eventually grandpa was escorted back to bed. Our goodbyes were unanswered. I looked at everyone cleaning up. I ate the mushroom. It was unfair to leave it behind.
I visited grandpa years later. It's amazing how quickly time passes. He was older, I was in my 20's. It was his birthday, 80 years old. We gathered around in a sterile, barren room with overly used long tables, the type you see at public functions with so much tape remnants, and straggly bits of crepe paper clinging to the memory of some party.
This table had bits of some earlier meal shared by many, as the previous occupants of this room had been less than fastidious. Grease still shined in a non-pattern across one section of the table, while my end held the uncoveted fallen of hastily eaten pizza.
A mushroom lay posed, perfectly cut, decorated with the right amount of sauce, drizzled with a dash of cheese. An amazing gift from the Mushroom Goddess, it was left here, uncared for, uncleaned, unpraised.
I looked at grandpa, blowing out his candles as he looked at so many strangers. His robe was open, his diaper sagged.
We were all uncomfortable, and eventually grandpa was escorted back to bed. Our goodbyes were unanswered. I looked at everyone cleaning up. I ate the mushroom. It was unfair to leave it behind.
Monday, November 16, 2009
Noodles
Noodles are spindly things. They find themselves twisting and curling, knotting over each other, dog piling on one another. They love being together. They don't care for the regimentation of the box in which they arrive. Better yet, they hope never to be boxed. So it is truly amazing when a young child has cast his or her will against that of the mighty noodle. Glue and noodle, blended with paper to create the ultimate masterpiece a kid can create. An orderly, beautiful portrait of life itself, trying to keep chaos at bay.
To strive for that perfection isn't the goal, though. We become immersed, as adults, in the final product, without enjoying a dab of glue on a piece of macaroni or the funny quandry of trying to remove that stupid orange construction paper stuck to one's hand as we simultaneosly try to finish our semolina masterpiece before the bell rings.
We lose sight of the journey. And that is what this is about. It may not be the most fun and the picture one is asked to portray is often not a favorite subject. It may even be tasking trying to keep all of the individual noodles organized.
We must remember to simply enjoy the creation of the masterpiece as best as one can. Take pride in the making, knowing that a gold star is well earned, even if it can never hang on a refrigerator door.
To strive for that perfection isn't the goal, though. We become immersed, as adults, in the final product, without enjoying a dab of glue on a piece of macaroni or the funny quandry of trying to remove that stupid orange construction paper stuck to one's hand as we simultaneosly try to finish our semolina masterpiece before the bell rings.
We lose sight of the journey. And that is what this is about. It may not be the most fun and the picture one is asked to portray is often not a favorite subject. It may even be tasking trying to keep all of the individual noodles organized.
We must remember to simply enjoy the creation of the masterpiece as best as one can. Take pride in the making, knowing that a gold star is well earned, even if it can never hang on a refrigerator door.
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