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 *Landscape 1* Oil On Paper Waiting
For The Sun, The Day Not Yet Begun, Counting Up Memories Stacked One On One, Each Dearly Loved, But Gone. At Most, Only A Distant Fragrance Lingers, Transparent, Fleeting Fingers, Youth’s Ghost, Myself The Host.
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 *In A Mirror* 40" H X 30" W Acrylic On Canvas Out
Along The Ruffled Edge Of Sleep, Muffled, Deep Dwelling, Lives The Dream, The Parallel Scheme, Into Which We Are Nightly Hurled, As The Other Self Unfurls, Random, Confused, Shuffled, Vital, Ever New, And Always You.  Last
Night, A Mist Of Rain, But I Watered The Flowers Again, The Roses Full Blown, The Bachelor’s Buttons Overgrown. Bright Heads Droop Under Water Weight, Wet Deep To Root, The Stately Lavender Mute.  Darling
Captain, I Wish Fair Winds And A Following Sea To Speed Thee Back To Me. I Wait On The Shore, Hoping You Will Never More Sail Away To War, And Darken My Lonely Days, Ever Searching For The Lifting Tide You Ride. Come Back, Come Back, And Bring A Cargo Of All The Love I Lack.  *Footed Bowl* Carved Italian Alabaster * 8" L X 6" W X 4" H Soul
Shaken In A Jar, Bliss Bottled, Rare Sweet Meats To Taste, Nothing Sensual Gone To Waste, Six Lines Of Verse To Explain The Universe. Cherished, Savored, Saved, A Precious Secret To Share, If I Dare.  In
New Mexico, High Winds Blow In Spring, And Wreak Havoc With Every Thing. Lawn Chairs Go Flying, With People Trying To Lash Down What The Wind Pleases To Snatch Away With A Fierce Breeze. Last Night, With A Mighty Roar, It Blew The Screen Out Of The Front Door, Right Onto The Floor. I Mean, Really. It’s Getting Silly.  Asked
Why I Did Not Post A Memento On My Late Lamented’ s Birthday, Sadly, I Had Nothing I Wished To Publicly Say. A Silent Space Opens Up With No One In His Place As Weeks Become Years, And Often, With Saved Tears, I Cannot Speak.  *Nude In Landscape* 16" H X 20" W Oil On Canvas Falling
Into Flowers Meadow Deep, Petals Blue And Gold, Unaware Of Time’s Relentless Creep, Until Fair Winds Sweep In, And Soft As Rain, Blow The Hillside Green Again.  All
The Old Folk Singers Are Gone, Moved On, Got Old As The Rhythm Rolled, Living In A Hippie Hymn, In A Briefly Golden Whim, And I Sang Along, Certain Love Could Right Every Wrong, All Hope Contained In A Song. |
AuthorJeanette Collins Archives
August 2024
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