Blog Archives - High Desert Art

High Desert Art

Blowhard

9/30/2020

Full
Of
Inanity,
Trump
Is
The
Enemy
Of
Decent
Humanity.
He
Struts
And
Frets
And
The
Louder
He
Screams,
The
More
Worthless
He
Seems.
Basking
In
His
Imagined
Glory,
Greedy
Avarice
Is
His
Story.
Those
Who
Scrabble
To
Fit
His
Babble
Are
Only
His
Distorted
Reflection.
Vote
The
Fool
Out
In
The
Coming
Election,
And
Set
This
Country
In
A
Better
Direction.

Lullaby II

9/28/2020

A
Fleet
Of
Stars
Recline
Between
The
Power
Lines
Like
Mellow
Notes
Of
Silent
Sound,
High
Above
The
Noisy
Ground.
I Play
Them
In
My
Mind,
And
Find
The
Song.
Hey,
I Sing,
Every
Thing
Down
Here
Has
Gone
Terribly,
Awfully,
Ghastly,
Wrong.
The
Unruly
Human
Mix
Is
In
A
Deadly
Fix
And
Those
We
Chose
To
Lead
Are
Consumed
With
Selfish
Greed.
The
Lines
Stretch
On,
The
Stars
Grow
Dim,
And
I Remain
Below
Humming
My
Muted
Hymn,
The
Only
One
I Know.

Power Grab

9/26/2020

*Bowl* Cast Bronze

We
Have
A
Golden
Bowl,
Cast
In
A
Molten
Glow,
Hammered
By
Many
A
Blow.
It
Holds
Our
Liberty
And
Dreams,
But
Evil
Men
Labor
To
Open
Seams
And
Let
Our
Freedom
Flow
And
Spill,
For
The
Gaudy
Thrill
Of
Power
And
Greed,
Taking
All
We
Need
To
Live,
Until
We
Have
Nothing
Left
To
Give.

Plan

9/24/2020

*Carl Holsoe*

In
The
Infinite
Depths
Of
Sleep,
Where
Neglected
Memories
Creep,
The
Past
Is
Held
Fast,
To
Shape
And
Form
The
Coming
Day,
Then
Emerge
As
A
Renewed
Urge
That
This
Time,
You’ll
Get
Life
Right,
Before
The
Coming
Night.

Congresspersons

9/22/2020

Some
Politicians
Ply
Their
Trade,
Knowing
Money
Can
Be
Made
By
One
Or
Two
Small
Fibs,
Which
Soon
Become
A
Giant
Lie,
Then
Morphs
Into
A
Way
Of
Life,
All
To
Avoid
Financial
Strife,
And
Preserve
Their
Hour
Of
Power.
This
Corruption
Is
Slow
To
Grow
Then
Like
A
Fungus,
Covers
All.
The
Traitors
Never
Recall
How
They
Came
To
Be
Despicable
Crooks,
And
Retire
To
Write
Lucrative
Books.

Waiting For November

9/20/2020

*Stephanie Bracciano*

I’m
Forming
The
Goal
Of
Digging
A
Hole
And
Climbing
In
While
I Still
Have
My
Skin.
Crooked
Politicians
Have
Me
Trapped
Like
An
Olive
In
Aspic,
And
It’s
Making
Me
Sick.
I Can’t
Understand
What
Makes
Some
Folks
Tick,
Who
Steal
To
Keep
Going,
Knowingly
Lie
And
Let
Honor
Go
By.
With
Souls
Black
As
Hell,
They
Are
Wrecking
The
Mail
And
Robbing
Our
Trust,
Dividing
The
National
Cash
Pie,
Leaving
Only
The
Crust.

Domestic Bliss

9/18/2020

I Hear
About
Other’s
Household
Woe,
And
How
Far
They
Must
Go
To
Fix
The
Sunken
This
And
Broken
That,
Troubles
That
I Never
See,
But
Now
It’s
Happened
To
Me.
The
Tiresome
Roofers
Broke
The
Swamp
Cooler,
What
Could
Be
Crueler?
Then,
Further
Grief
As
Last
Night,
The
Ceiling
Began
To
Leak.
Twelve
Feet
Of
Four
Mil
Plastic
On
The
Floors,
The
Rugs
Wet,
Me
In
A
Fret.
They’re
Coming
Back
Today,
And
Need
I say,
I’m
Loaded
For
Bear,
And
The
Beggars
Better
Make
A
Damn
Big
Repair.
I would
Have
Fashioned
A
Better
Rhyme,
But
I Haven’t
Got
Time.

Mid-September

9/16/2020

*Albuquerque 3* 24" H X 30" W Oil On Linen

In
Only
The
Space
Of
A
Day,
Summer
Walked
Away
In
A
Shower
Of
Leaves.
We
Grieve
The
Loss
Of
Lazy
Sun
And
Endless
Time,
And
Shelter
From
The
Cold,
The
Season
Grown
Old,
The
Flowers
Going,
The
Shadows
Growing.
Winter
Will
Come
With
It’s
Sting
And
Bring
The
Frost,
The
Yearly
Cost
We
Pay
For
Cere’s
Sorrow,
As
We
Wait
For
Spring’s
Tomorrow.

The City

9/14/2020

*Manhattan 4: Night* 30" H X 24" W Acrylic On Canvas

I Spent
A
Little
Time
At
The
Center
Of
The
World,
Life
A
Metered
Rhyme,
Paint
In
My
Hair,
Promise
Everywhere.
Eventually,
I Left
The
Throng
For
The
Company
Of
A
Few,
Doing
What
I Do,
And
Often
Recall
The
Thrall
Of
Being
Among
The
Best,
Yet
I Have
No
Regret
About
My
Fabled,
Heedless,
Youth,
And
That’s
The
Honest
Truth.

Conflagration

9/12/2020

Pity
The
Sun,
Struggling
To
Rise
Through
Smoke
Laden
Skies.
Pity
The
Land,
Burnt
Border
To
Sea,
Folks
Forced
To
Flee
Like
Refugees,
Dogged
By
The
Virus,
Battered
By
Firestorm,
Nowhere
Safe
To
Go
In
The
Pitiless
Inferno.