A Whisper from the Moon

A Kentucky Meadow

A leftover whisper from the moon,

still sleeps on the meadow

as the soft transition

between night and light, opens

the embrace of the sycamore.

A crow flies with a hint of lavendar,

calling for the whispers to wake and see.

Alone

We all live in our own universe, bound by our skin and perceptions, our fears and expectations. Levels of meanings recede and expand as our emotions negotiate our existence.

The Middle of Time

The Kentucky Guild of Artist and Craftsman is celebrating its 50th Anniversary. My drawing "The Middle of Time" has been selected to be included in the exhibit. The exhibit will be from March 5 to August 20, 2011 at the Artisan Center in Berea.

Awake

Awake

A single call of a scavenger

awakens my darkness.

Forcing me, again

to feel the rough path

and hear the morning sky

as it rushes through the fingers of the earth.

The crow seems to scorn me

for loosing my purpose.

Forgetting, why

I needed a breath of honesty

and a touch of certainty,

why the delicate tissues of my being

were screaming for freedom.

The Journey

The Journey

The pine, orphaned

with its broken arms

and withered seeds

becomes the magnificent.

A dark skeleton, against

the dying heaven--

a death that burns

with the passion of simmering coals.

My breath becomes a breath, shared

with the eternity of colors

and a prayer

that wish a moment

could last forever.

The Face of Red River Gorge

The Face of Red River Gorge

Scattered and small, they open their expression to the velvety touch of moss and the board shinny leaves of the magnolias. They cradle the delicate fern that thrive in their solid grasp, and hold their place as the roots of the maple trees dig to find the riches they cannot offer.

"Deep Time"

The high cliffs of southeastern Kentucky look down on the meager life surrounding them. It is as though they sleep as we go about our busy lives. They never seem to notice the hawks that soar overhead or the generations of trees that live and die on their shoulders. Or do they notice the wind and water that chisels away their features, leaving them unique monuments of time.