Purpose & Poetry

This past week has felt like that stage in life where one must rip themselves out of their own cocoon. I think I’m ready to fly about now but before I get back to making paintings and beer labels, I wanted to share this painting I made when I was 17 years old. After I completed it, I knew I had no choice but to be an artist. I knew I wasn’t naturally good at it but, I knew my purpose and that I’d figure the rest out. We don’t get to choose our lot or calling in life, and it seems much of mine is to bear my soul to the world, whether it be through painting fire, through poetry, video art, jewelry, sculpture, costumes, teaching, friendships, family, lovers. The path has taken me to incredible peaks and bountiful valleys, and through dark tunnels that, at times, felt as though they would never end. It’s brought me moments of untellable joy, deep sadness, bouts of movement, stretches of stillness, immense pride, raw vulnerability, and comfort and discomfort alike. Although hopefully, I’ve learned to elevate and refine the drama of it all a bit more than my 17 year old self could manage.

And while I know I would and have done this without the eyes of any spectators, I appreciate all of those who have been there along and through my journey because, what’s the point of bearing your soul if it doesn’t touch a few lives along the way? You all have certainly touched mine.

I’ve also put some of my poetry on my website blog. Most of it was written when I was 21-22 and after years of it sitting dormant in a file on my desktop, it’s so strange to know on a fundamental level, I have always been me. Not many people know this but, I almost decided to pursue the life of a poet instead of a painter when I got out of college… man, I’m so fortunate and grateful to have had so much love and support over the years from my family, friends, lovers, co-workers, bosses, students and teachers to live my purpose. As always, thank you for listening.

Stardust Galaxies

Sometimes someone should
just lay me out⎯ raw.
Splayed out in all different
directions. Spread out among the
galaxies, so there is no longer
an inside of me, but a me in
everything. Looking out over
the stardust gradients⎯
like an echo ever-searching
for the boundaries of space.
When it hits a wall it most
certainly will break,

But collect on the other side
For those walls were built
by man and as hands were
given to construct, they were
also given to undo, what was
done just to keep in and out
worlds that were meant to
run together and meld like
the sunlight through the sea,
like the wind through the trees,
like my hands through your
hair, like our lungs and the
air, like passing souls
through infinities, like our
atoms and our energy⎯
this is how it was always
meant to be. This is the
meaning⎯ One inevitable
mimicry of the stardust
spread out in its vastness.

These aren’t just pretty
words to fill up lyrical space,
or to entertain your time⎯
This is truly what I’ve
come to call divine. That
your bodies and your minds,
your cash and your children,
your trash and your treasure,
your bodily fluids and your
artwork (may it be one in
the same) will again return
to dust. Even if it takes
millions of glee and misery
laden centuries it will all
eventually perish because,

Nothing is above corrosion.

This is the source of Beauty.
This is my so-called “God.”
This is how I pray.
If I were to give it their names

But I cannot begin to try
and give that energy a name
and pray by laughing with friends,
paddling up rivers, swimming
in seas, visiting with trees,
looking through old photos
and letters, breaking out the
watercolors and above all⎯
Love making.

And if I am lucky when my
particles finally disperse
I’ll take all of these colors
with me: the brilliant purples
and greens, the true blues
and oranges, the deep yellows
and reds will come back in
Wild Gardens, Coral Reefs,
Tropical Sunsets and
Stardust Galaxies…

Yes, you may think a
Romantic fool of me,
But I am here to
state my religion
⎯my belief.
And this is what
I believe will become
of you and me:
We’ll return back to
our heavenly bodies

*I couldn’t even tell you who I wrote this about at the time*

Undefined

I won’t assign your gestures
adjectives fit for seasons;
Compare your presence to
the promising spark of the
on coming fall⎯ Your voice to
twitters and cooing in spring

I cannot proclaim that our
situation is like a circular
dance, that allows our
eyes to lock at intervals,
to lead up to a triumphant
cheek to cheek

Odds are highly unlikely that
this story is written out in
the stars; that the plot is
even something to call ours

Or that our fate was made
by some Saint such as Cupid,
who has pierced us with
invisible arrows

I wouldn’t dream of likening
our somewhat-of-a-journey
to the life of a fertile tree,
that each day sprout another
green leaf⎯ How it grows,
and it grows

Wouldn’t deem it a creek,
nor a river, that to some
endless source does it flow

I will not draw up a plan
to conquer some uncharted
land or shore, to hold it
beside the list of great wars
the history of man has bore
⎯As if their significance
belonged hand in hand

I could not call it a clock,
that for our sake has
called off its gears to
temporarily stop with their
turning⎯ For the pages
on the calendar still flip;
the trusty second hand in
the distance is persistent
in its tick

Your appearance does not
simulate an intricate
arrangement of petals
placed impeccably on stem;
Your name does not roll off
the tongue as sweetly as
that of some rare flower;
Your scent is not yet,
to my senses, familiar

Though I am tempted,
I can’t quite relate that
we have the promise of
some unknown X⎯
Whether it be the
destination of a treasure
map, or the solution to a
brilliant equation in math

It’s not quite the word,
but let’s say I “regret” I
should deny you and I are
vast highways that wind,
bend, turn, and moan to
eventually intersect
at a Home

I can no longer call you
a stranger, And I cannot
predict that one day
I’ll call you the one⎯
But to you my friend,
Here’s hoping on Hope

*My boyfriend in college had the most delicious kumquat tree in his yard*

Busy Bee Me

I’m nothing of this kind of
forgetting kind, but I’ve taken
to forgetting your kindness,
your Likeness.
Even if it’s been the nicest,
I’ve given into defense mechanisms.

I’m pairing down like a fruit
over-rip and clenching almost
uncomfortably close to core.

The grasp of my hand always
a bit more stubborn than
most, at releasing its hold.

And maybe it’s not that I’ve
let go, but that I’ve been
grasping so long that my
tendons have gotten past
the sharpness of pain
⎯Have locked up in a
compromising fixture.

The silence grows thicker
and leaves me considerable
time to carefully peel away
the edges of my rind,
Tap into the Sweetness.

And when the recognizable
nectar hits the tips of tongue
and lip with such a flavor,
Eyes close and in my mind
will span a time and a place,
from placing of seed, to that
moment of receiving the fruit
from the labors I bore.

Although needless to say,
I wish you were here,
I have to wonder considerably
more: If you were would I
have done much else for
myself than lounge under
the shade of orchards that
were not planted by me?

And how long would that
kind of Sweetness on tongue
have lasted, on fruits that were
stolen by mere pull and reach?

I’ll never truly forget
Our niche in the earth,
our cool patch of dirt,
Or the puckering of the
most delightfully sour
citrus, fresh from tree.

But, I started to spend most
of my days, alone, planting
seeds, and while you slept
I began to stare at the
canopy⎯give you my back.

So you up and you left
and it got tiring being the
Lone one always staring up,
longingly, through the leaves

So I’ve spread out my seeds
and from them,
Orchards have begun to spring.

Yet after a long day in
the trees, there is still
missing another by which
to lay or to share with, the
fruits that I’ve reaped.
Goodnight, busy-head me.

*Written on 02/11/2021 about not being cut out for modern dating*

Swipe Right

How do you compare to hundreds
that have come before you?
How do you trust the lines coming
from such soft looking lips?
Knowing that they have shot so
many times and missed?

It’s like once you start pressing skip
on a playlist, maybe you’re not really
In the mood for any kind of music, anymore.
Your finger keeps on pushing, so many faces
So many plastic hellos, hollow goodbyes.

Does anyone actually find freedom
as they lose track of the score?
In this climate, sensitivity is a liability
and people are just searching for
More, more, more.

Everyone is a content creator,
climbing an invisible ladder
Waiting and wanting to be
Adored, doored, doored.

What if we shared more in the
present and didn’t treat each
Meeting the same as a
Scroll, scroll, scroll.

Once, that term meant a boundless
ream of paper, to be transcribed slowly,
Full of sentiment, to spin cyclically
through the ages with a
Roll, roll, roll.

We are an optimistic folk, always so
ready to throw our leg back around that
Horse, horse, horse–
We keep dusting ourselves off,
keep trying to find and take what we
Want, want, want–
That sometimes we forget to
Stew, stew, stew–
On a person, on a passion–on anything!

Life now seems so full of flavor,
but is there any nourishment?
Everyday we wonder if we’ll meet the
perfect person, that checks every
Box, box, box.

There’s no longer any turning it off.
We must succumb to the ever-present
Humm, humm, humm.
So! When you can, say hello to the
birds and the flowers as they
Come, come, come.

Sit a while in the sun, under a canopy
of leaves and really listen to someone.
Take note of each breeze as it passes
Through the trees and dance openly in
the streets, if it be what you
Please, please, please.

Try not to look at people like numbers:
Followers, net worth, weight, height,
Age, age, age.
The most wonderful part of life is that it’s
Nothing and Everything like turning
a prewritten page.

*Written: 02/12/2021*

Rolling Stone

What makes a stone prone to rolling,
Or to fit snuggly among the walls of a home?
It’s the boulder we’re hewn from,
The elements we’ve endured,
The cleave of the axe that’s been thrown.

Teetering now on an important ledge,
Waiting to see if this is where I settle in the
sand or continue down the uncharted path.
Spirit still weary, and even though in limbo,
Grateful for the rest, the pause.

Must we keep succumbing to the winds
and the storms? Does stopping mean
digging in fragile claws?
Or could we finally learn to be still?
All this rolling stone ever wanted
was to grow a little moss.