I believe being an artist is like being haunted; these images, these words, floating in the periphery; demanding life. They appear too often when you least expect them, and it’s frightening at times how vivid they are for hardly existing at all; but the fear you may lose them forever to die slowly in your mind is far worse, while they beg ‘Create Me!’

When I was not There

I wonder often the stories of your life,
The words that were written when I was not there.
I wonder what the lines of your skin would write,
What lyrics would be drawn from your lips;
What you have created with your hands over a lifetime of work;
All of it hard and beautiful.
I wonder often what your eyes have witnessed;
The yellow grass of summer under your feet;
the fog in the morning, slow and encroaching;
The salt on your skin as you waited. Patiently.
For your lover to return from the sea.
The Ocean through your window,
The ivory lace curtains,
An old metal kettle that whistled bright and sharp for your tea.
We shared oranges
While you sat in your chair,
The crack of the peel and bright scent of citrus.
Your beautiful blue eyes,
Poignant and pretty,
As thier lines fell over each other when you smiled,
And I’ll wonder what of the world they had seen when I was not there.

To my Great Grandmother Annie, 1922 - 2014