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David Jackson
Rocky Island from Seaton Sluice beach, a Watercolor by Norman Tween
Rocky Island from Seaton Sluice beach autumn 07. Sitting on an old WW2 tank trap to daub this colour sketch.
This “sketch” has perfect tone and is reminds me of Van Gogh is the construction of the buildings and the layers of the landscape itself. The distant figures are Pissaro-like tiny sketches. It’s a beautiful scene which has more in it, a glimpse of art itself.
Library, A Poem by Linda Straub
Library
We are collectors of years lived,
Stored on invisible shelves
To be counted and remembered;
Decades lined up side by side,
Each volume chosen and examined
As life calls for introspection
And reaffirmation;
A return to who we were,
where we came from,
and lessons learned.
A few moments immersed
Into the chapters of our past
Lift the fog of forgetfulness,
And the fragments of our divided selves
Reassemble into the infinite divine.
Not Armageddon by David Michael Jackson
armageddon in the back yard?
no
a barbeque?
no
“Something for the them to throw away”
He flails like it means something
like anything matters
like fire itself wasn’t limited
like there was something left to say
after
after
after she’s gone
after he’s gone
and the paintings in a dusty attic
then found and left in a musty basement
are the same as those in the finest museum
in the
end
He throws the knife across the room.
Artist Statement.
Keep me or throw me away…it ain’t up to me and pleasing anybody but myself with art isn’t in me…I like to be in your face daring you to say it’s not art or not good art………maybe I’ll cut it up , glue it on the wall and use a belt sander next then burn it on the courthouse lawn. That would be an “installation”. Maybe I’ll just paint them, not sign them and leave them somewhere like in the parking lot at Home Depot, maybe beside those guys with signs pointing you to a restaurant. A string on a nail is art. A rectangle is art. A blank canvas is art. An empty room is art.We gotta put paint back on the damn canvas.
Rita Dove Reads ‘Daystar’ | Poem
Daystar by Rita Dove
She wanted a little room for thinking:
but she saw diapers steaming on the line,
a doll slumped behind the door.
but she saw diapers steaming on the line,
a doll slumped behind the door.
So she lugged a chair behind the garage
to sit out the children’s naps.
to sit out the children’s naps.
Sometimes there were things to watch –
the pinched armor of a vanished cricket,
a floating maple leaf. Other days
she stared until she was assured
when she closed her eyes
she’d see only her own vivid blood.
the pinched armor of a vanished cricket,
a floating maple leaf. Other days
she stared until she was assured
when she closed her eyes
she’d see only her own vivid blood.
She had an hour, at best, before Liza appeared
pouting from the top of the stairs.
And just what was mother doing
out back with the field mice? Why,
pouting from the top of the stairs.
And just what was mother doing
out back with the field mice? Why,
building a palace. Later
that night, when Thomas rolled over and
lurched into her, she would open her eyes
and think of the place that was hers
for an hour — where
she was nothing,
pure nothing, in the middle of the day.
that night, when Thomas rolled over and
lurched into her, she would open her eyes
and think of the place that was hers
for an hour — where
she was nothing,
pure nothing, in the middle of the day.
Rita Dove reads ‘Daystar’ from BillMoyers.com on Vimeo.