Shake the dreams from your hair.

The pile of sketches from the last few days keeps falling off the speaker cabinet in the corner of the room. The bass vibrations send them toppling down to the floor. Water color paintings and pencil sketches taking a brief flight to the paint stained rug beneath. Flight seems an appropriate word as many of them are hawks. Screenshots from my own dreamscape television program. Caught in the echoes. No sense seen in turning down the music. For it’s this moments bird with its talons still grappling my imagination tight. Caught on the wing in my childhood, they still never fail at carrying me away.

But I all ready wrote her that poem.

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A dream from October visited again in November.

It was impossible to run out and meet the night, from where I was sitting.
Across from her at that restaurant on Marsh St.
“I’ve identified the problem” she said in a cold, lifeless voice. The lantern still in her cold white hands.
“you’re terrified of being loved”.
With that last sentence I woke from the sleepless October dream.
So what is my next command? Raise the portcullis and drain the moat?
I began to suspect that traveling storyteller with the troubled mind was right.
I do often suspect my ribcage is a sort of jail cell.
I’m not sure what it is I want to keep out or in.
It’s evident from the street there is a conflict inside.
To hear the echo now might have just saved my life.
Or at the least a chapter of a book I can’t yet write.
And again to further contradict myself, in my own learned form, I’ll tell you something here.
As much as I strive for the clean drawn page. I’m often just thirsty for a fiery destruction of my delightful own.
It crosses my mind more than she does.
Brightly.

Push off from the shore.

Night time finds me on a chair noting a stillness in the air.
Sketching from some great photographs. Owl pencil studies.
Recent travels have filled my head with images, words, and birds.
I think I’m having a hard time finding my footing but once I do I’m confident I’ll come out with something new.
Trying to find that point to launch the boat from without getting my feet wet.
If I don’t come up with it in the next few days, I’ll just hang the shoes out to dry in the sun.
They’ll be fine.

A farewell to…

Finding ghost birds in the grain, while walking home in the rain.

And an ending hand written by Hemingway.

 

I had originally planned on using this piece of wood for a hawk drawing. After several sketches none of which proved up, I cleaned the surface and started anew. The Warbler shape is always a good go-to. I used a similar approach as the recent large hawks in flight. Leaving openings to let the wood do some of the talking.
 
 
 
 

On a branch in the back of my mind.

I walked to California in concrete shoes,
Midwest boy with the nothing-certain blues.
 
She walked right past me with a halo made of lead,
I turned to look when I should have tied my shoes and fled,
 
She looked like spring and I looked like a thousand winters.
whenever I got near her my thoughts turned to splinters.
 
 
 
 
I’m not often sure who “she” is, but that’s an owl, I can tell you that much for certain.