It’s what we pay, the ticket we buy to enter
the time we spend here.
It’s the face we return to in the mirror,
our constant friend.
It’s the dust of every day that never goes away,
accumulates, just turn our backs, there’s more.
It’s the ball the dog returns regardless of
how many times we throw it or, how far.
It’s the buzz, the hum we hear in back
of it all, a national pastime, an anthem of sorts .
It’s what we buy to lug home, paper or plastic
bags full, fresh and frozen, canned or dried,
still warm from baker’s oven, or butcher’s blade,
ready to serve, and then it’s served..
Now here’s some more over here I almost forgot.
Kicking Leaves
The leaves have lost their green,
Their promises of bud
Of bloom or blight
They have added some color
And variety and contour, but
The leaves have lost their trees,
Now stretch out on lawns,
Lay claim to their moment.
They tumble and toss themselves,
Kick and crumble, crackle under foot.
The leaves remind us, whisper
About our beginnings and endings,
They remind us now of the feel
Of inside places, of a warmth
They will never feel again.
The leaves are losing their hold
On us, like this they drop down
Into time and are going, blowing,
Gone.
Art for Art’s Sake
When he finally rented the studio,
Bought into the idea of space and
Time, he brought in light and color,
An easel or two, brushes and canvas,
Enough of the pre-art supplies to feel
The stir of it, inspiration, motivation;
He began with the abstracts that had
Been in his head for years, shapes
Swirling about, muted colors drifting
One into another, till he tired of trying
To name them, to anchor them enough
To show, so he brought in models,
Inexpensive models: the homeless guy
From the corner posed for a sandwich
And a pint; a woman from up the block
Said she’d pose, then never showed up,
So painted what he imagined about her,
Her awkward beauty, a pose she held for
Hours in his head, then on a canvas;
Soon he was painting every day, everything
He imagined, everything he saw came to life,
Shape, pattern, perspective, it all flowed
From his brush, canvas after canvas;
The studio filled up, his art piled up in
Corners and cabinets full, if anyone ever
Came in they’d trip and trouble him
About it all; he sent a few out, showed them
At first, but since they all came back
He kept them, tried to arrange them
But order never worked, became strays;
Art can be like that, it fills his space and
Time, closes in on him, so many shapes,
So much color, he buries himself in it
And knows that that’s all that will ever be.
J.K. Durick
