Notes from a Trip Home

Art is a full time-love affair;

it was never designed

to be forced into hours stolen

from the mantel clock;

it never fit into casual discourse;

or tedium of “making a living.”

The creation of art is the

liberation of life, the hallowing

of sacred ground for

misunderstood invisible things.

 

I come from a line

of practical souls.

We measure our days by output;

my mother paces the house

like a trapped bird, recleaning

the same surface 3 times per day;

her hands are always occupied

in arranging something. She

is an occasional artist; she

places dreams on shelves

to be dusted daily and read later.

 

She admonishes, “I do not have

the luxury of taking an afternoon nap”

if we close our eyes. I steal

from the house at midnight;

in these hours where love for a man

is etched across the moon

in the branches of an oak that

the beetles have not killed. My art

is not optional; it is my breath,

my love affair with the man, bound

to the earth and fastened to the sky

by my own roots.

 

I am the most impractical member

of my tribe. I wish I knew how

to reach across generational distances;

I wish I had the courage to

help her understand this daughter;

to tell her, “and I have never had

the luxury and peace of mind

to sleep through an entire night.”

Art is the most demanding employer

the human heart ever inflicted

upon us; and I was never anything

but its inadequate servant.

Author's Note

photo is mine

Reviews

[bob, small b. aka invs]

i always enjoy your writing. it's so well crafted and thought full. as the one in my family with the writing gene, i understand the different-ness you express here. hopefully, those who do not understand us will at least put up with us.

[John the Baptist]

Sounds like you have an interesting family. Indeed, artists are different.