a summer festival banner weekend

a summer festival  banner weekend

for small farmer apple town Ohio

when curious regular folk and their cousins neighbors

turn out, see ‘em,  lining up and down the way.

have a meal, spin the wheel,

try a share of homemade pie , amid the chattering.

an sample some of yesterday,  here today.

and be sure to view  old tractors on parade,

rolling clean and well buffed like everyone.

she pours me a bit of homemade  lemonade.

go ahead sun, shine, while kids crank that ice cream ready,

and, life, we’ve  got it made. oh, yes,  we’ve got it made.

doing something well takes time

to do well may be easy

but always takes time

do a thousand times

with care and attention

that ’ll learn ya

and might get some mention

art is

first you get the turkey,

 take him for a long walk, shake his hand,

wack  his head off, cook him at three- fifty

or  thereabouts,  bones an’ all

a long, long time.

leave ‘em dry  outside  on the picnic table in the sun,

many suns and moons.

 take notes or will I have to repeat myself?

then  come back in like twelve years

make sure it’s like twelve years, think dozen.

take any bones you find or pieces thereof

and stack it or ‘em.  the process is

kinda like  how you  bake a cake from scratch

only if you pile it nice you call it art.   

pretty slick.  got it?

don ‘t try to eat anything, it’ll make you sick;

art is for looking and to have feelings about.

suffer and benefit

is the name

of my would-be book of poems

not leaves, Walt,

not leave of anything  –  no way.

mine leaves  the hard part

your too is two and to

learn what  is next

do it (i don’t get it)

so there is pain,

what’s new about that?

now let me see

where was I . . . at?

oh, yeah,  been there.

perfect fit,  benefit.

all  life is tinkering:

a work in progress.

in the art museum

had a coffee first thing

are we becoming Italian?

used the bathroom and

got in free  -  cause I’m old

in the great stone  building, the modern art museum 

i met face to face a large metal sculpture by Alberto Giacometti

who i got introduced to metaphorically,  fifty-three years ago

by  my art teacher Dick Foley.

now this day i stand facing  the slick, stick

tall  human image – like a person,  strange for sure.

cast artfully in dark shiny metal; lumpy and smooth.

imposing, patiently poised.

i take a seat and gaze a while,

see other things and come back to it

be nice to have  at home to admire

thoughts can drift with it, but go nowhere in particular

  

more should be said, others have tried

as it looks good. 

it is most interesting to look at

that’s why it’s here in a museum

art open  here - in hours of viewing

witness the work,

 reaching out,   

grasping;

these efforts of art master’s

 unite the environment  in  color and shape,

in style and form;  from the ages,

for now and  all time.

my time to see it all is limited

but I am thankful for what time there is

that is a good reason to come by

into this museum of contemporary art.

on writing a poem

consider what you’ve  been thinking,

 wheel it around;

 sit and think about it more

and then a bit  more, until  it’s okay.

so then you write some parts,

and then add a little more.

do it all in a day

or kick it around for a month, either way,

then it all comes out

like the washing machine when it stops.

open the door and  sort it,

folding and stacking pieces together,

and that’s  why you write a poem.

why?  that’s right, of course.

to put the pieces together

and if you do it right there’s nothing left over,

mostly nothing.  the truth is you’ve got the

rest of you life left over, so it may, more than

likely,  occur to you to do it again.   another day.

don’t ask when,  and if it rhymes, that’s ok.

remember, you need some luck

and if it quacks

you’ve made a duck.

some say – well, Emily Dickenson alluded that way.