The dead shapes of leaves
Look like the corpses of rodents.
They're soft to the touch
And filled with disease.

Oh so hard

I see the inspiration,
See it played by the wind.
But I cannot feel it.
What good is a tool
If its use cannot be found?
Endless movement with nothing to show,
Ideas that flicker without substance.

The city

The air hung thick and dead, casting a grey shadow over the whole face of the city. Everything was broken. The occupants of the city, numb from constant terror, shuffled through the streets, stopping from time to time to push wreckage of homes, splintered beams and broken armchairs to the curb. Every home had been emptied, shaken upside down in a comic gesture, leaving the detritus of everyday life to form the new texture of the urban surface. The topography of the city had been upended as if with one rolling convulsion. Old landmarks were forgotten, erased, and in their place new fantastical sights had been erected.

color and pattern built on the shadow of form, layering paint until a story unfolds, defining a moment before time moves on to the next. the inexorable momentum, frozen for a view of the characters at play. each shape has its own story, its own history and record, taken together, when any two shapes should collide, combine or just sit side to side, a pattern of stories is created. something interesting and ephemeral happens when a memory of a place blends with a chronicle told, where the rational meets the whimsical, and where abstraction meets the narrative. timing can create breathtaking beauty, or perhaps, with a shudder and gasp, burst out with a laugh.

the wounded general

the General was strong and formidable, with fiery eyes unclouded by questions. the General strode with purpose and loud clanging footsteps. there was no barrier too great, everything was easily won or clarified with an attitude of possession. the entire world lay at the General's feet, simplified and small. until the day that everything changed. the weapon was sharp, and pierced with skill. the General crumpled and fell and felt blood pour from a wound, sensed the dusty ground drink in the blood that poured from the wound. the earth took this blood, taking with it strength and pride, till the General passed into darkness. much time passed thus, for the wound was deep and in a place near to the heart. the General asked the sun on awakening, "is this what is left of my life? to cower and shake and feel so uncertain?"  the sun looked down to where the General sat with knees drawn in, and replied, "it is time to learn that there is more to the battle than winning, more to this life than success. your journey will be long, your profit ephemeral. when you look at your hands, they may hold nothing more grand than the air. this is what it is to be human." and when the General rose to face the fierceness of day, weakness and doubt were newly planted where savage aggression had been, with footstep still shaking with relief of survival. so the General became the Wounded General, a reflection of uncertainty and sincerest hope for the future, never taking and always searching, healing slowly with life's heavy toil.

one works so hard for change, well, improvement that is, that one doesn't always look up from the grind to see where all the effort as taken you. so much has happened since the posts below this one. new spaces to fill and new challenges to fulfill. new views to love and new sights set.