Wood and Wire

I ask the music, for a time, 
To carry me to somewhere else; 
Another time, some kind of place 
Where troubles stop, and tension melts -- 

But it's a lot to ask, I guess. 
Creating island and lagoon 
From wood and wire, dust and string, 
When it too's tired, and 

Out of tune

It’s 3:30 in the morning as I type this and yesterday was not a great day.

I am sixty years old, but still feel shocked, saddened, and naive when confronted with the ugly realities of everyday life. I know it shouldn’t surprise me, but, it does. Over and over again.

Since I was born with a limited capacity to process and absorb reality, I have long used the arts as a place I could call… if not “home”, maybe like “an affordable hotel”. The piano has been the primary place for this, but it could be writing, or reading, or coloring, or… you get the picture. Or maybe you don’t, so here is some examples of pictures I recently colored using the Color Therapy app:

Reality is overrated, anyway. I mean, sure, that’s where you find all the food and stuff, but, it’s also where things like “assault” live.

Whether fortunate, or unfortunate, I have to spend most of my hours firmly within reality. On days like yesterday (which was not a great day) I feel pretty much like the piano pictured at the top of this post: chipped, dusty, and scantly able to perform my original purpose, which I’ve largely forgotten, anyway.

The best escape from reality isn’t always by way of fantasy, but into other people’s realities. That’s one of the beauties of “Nano Poblano”: reading other people’s blogs and seeing what their lives, loves, and struggles might be like.

Yesterday was not a great day. But maybe today will be.

the pattern still

all day all night the swirling mass:
impinging, rushing, cuffing —
we can true love the pattern, and
the pattern still mean nothing

we bathe in insignificance
and dry with our endeavor;
a ritual we do with care
on tiles of forever

then look into our mirrors, thinking,
“this deserves attention” —
the images we learn to love
just past our comprehension

all day all night the colors change,
our joys mixed up in sadness,
and it is for our hearts to find
some meaning in

the madness

The Lonely Night

The lonely night is never done;
It stretches on, in endless wake –
And closes in with memories
And dreams, beneath a constant ache

To walk upon the haunted earth,
To lie upon a sleepless bed,
To hope for nothing but the dark,
And pray that slumber’s just ahead –

But restless, rising up to go,
To walk out towards the waxing light –
These barren trees, they know the dark,
They’ve wrestled with the lonely night

The day will come – it always has –
But eyes will not be there to see:
The night will claim its prize at last,
The pride in you
The hope in me

Sleep, I’ve Missed You

Sleep, I’ve missed you
Many nights
Waited for you

I relive
But they’re not

Could I just but
Clear my mind
Then perhaps my
Brain would rest

Take me over, sleep
I beg you
Lying peaceful, slum’bring

the night’s alive

the night’s alive, the city is aglow,
the crowds of joy assembling apace
as shapes and masses fill each bit of space
along the avenues of come and go

but one, a wanderer, can find no trace
of what the lights portend, no shining grace
that others, he can tell, both see and know:
the night’s alive, but he is barely so

On The Gradual

When dying on the gradual
From smoke and lack of sleep,
There’s many-colored visions and
A tendency to weep

Inside a frozen winter night
Within a summer day,
A habit of vicissitude
Can lead to thoughts astray

And mine are all in tangles now,
With purposes unfocused,
But what comes on the gradual
Is rarely even


maybe dreams of emerald water

maybe dreams of emerald water
will afford me peace and rest;
maybe hope’s fair ocean daughter
will my willingness attest

that i hope is several fathoms
fathoming my heart’s desire;
emerald waves united anthem
to retire or