Studio8 - Uniting the Arts

Meeting his own ghost on the stairway 
coming down

the old man stood transfixed on the landing
the evening sun slanting in
the empty echo rooms
 whispering
of yesterdays passed away

the ghost stood looking down

a knowing smile in the shadows 
passed between them
high over head, above the house
, a hawk circled
riding the wind, waiting for the moment
to fold his wings then descend
spiraling into the conversation
the moment is complete

it's easy to say
harder to do
a poet is a poet
it's good to be read

I wish I could understand
What makes people do what they do

Sorry My friends for the comment confusion , but I took down my anger, you do not deserve that. So in apology I send you a favorite poem of mine.

each mans time passes quickly, it must be used wisely. see you soon is the message delivered by the hawk.

the door is open- the car hangs within the boundaries of the condo rules- i dream of brad pitt in thelma and louise-playful-fun
but dumb- lust can take it all= checkmate
close the garage
i want you to come to me dressed like a circus act and dip me around on the trapeze
nothing unrealistic about that right?

Jana you're too much 1st thing in the morning!

there is a coffee shop i frequent called'upstream'= the paddlers come out to play= the guy with the fancy mustang that lives next door is reving up

im too much all the time- Once - in Lake Tahoe, California=== a friend - a group of friends had a house-house blew up- and the only thing they could find in the rubble was a piece of the alblum by average white band ' picking up the pieces'== no scuba gear- no skiis - just that-

disaster has a sense of humor
my paintings are good
now i am afraid
where will it go from here?i always have to get all full of emotion and break down

is it the garden gate? i s it the long table from the high school journalism class=from a small red neck town...where they gave indians small pox blankets
but that is another story

is it walking by the river?is it the scratch marks from an invisable evil?
is it never really sleeping...
is it my childrens love
seeing the lights go on in thier souls
is it
paint AT THE FOOD BANK
IN andy warhol palet

The day held the music of a conversation
between poets in an ethereal dance of circumstance
with out words of letters
only colors of light
in the dream mind
the stories of the loves lost
paths crossed
old songs of youth remain holy
we find lonely kind in its own way
one day to find each others shadows intwined
the south wind brings spring
our hawk rises from the night
to fly the thermals
watching

Love the warmth of the south
The healing
Rolling along with such anxiety
I can barely stand it
Dr Phil had a girl married to a serial rapist and killer this morning
" central library " southwest tenth and alder"
That recording
I hear"
I can't do it"
I don't get it

Stress self imposed procrastinating images that are imprinted
Like a negative from historical archives
Forever held in that moment
Here at the 8x8 building
Where floaters congregate after a cold wet night
Sleeping out in the open
Dreaming of someone
Anyone that would be someone I could love
What does that feel like ?
Is it too late?

If they loved me?

The west bound out of town brings the song around again
we know so well the words of no other lover
in some time gone astray
at the end of a magical day it played
dance a little closer was in the whisper wind.

the computer lab- and the paperwork i never want to look at- all in my lap
the man i imagined= did these things for me
i didnt have to touch that world-i could float in the wake of the boats on the river
my wings are so wet- i feel so soggy
all of that and my little doggie
the rain
bunch of joggers
and a whole bunch of loggers
salmon and berries
i should be grateful- i lose my mind at the 'proper time' and then - it seems like it was supposed to happen that way
cab driver did not make me pay
i left my portfolio in his taxi
i could see myself trying to tell the professor
i lost my homework
thatbecame the topic of conversation
my favorite of anybody in class saved ,
me again-
from the distinctive failure i feel in that class
the child in me is still the same