APRIL 2008
National Poetry Month

Woman Landscape

The Blue Ridge have the slope
and curve of a woman’s body,
Undulating in the night’s shadow,
dazzling in the noonday sun.
She whispers her poetry to me,
holds me in a fixed stare of
Bewildering impulses; eyes
like dinner plates lurk on horizons.

I draw her motions in the
changing light, paint the increasing
depth of her intense color,
a temporary grace between worlds.
When she is finished with me
I will cease to exist, my blind eye
Just a memory in the charcoal dust
of a fleeting mental saga.

She is a passing revelation,
a piece of the cosmic scene that
The inner man is allowed to visit
and record, unconvincing,
Dry as a woman landscape
he tells himself  he creates for the
Pantheon of creation schemes,
displaying conventional skills.

The see-thru vision escapes
any attempt to perceive a poet’s
concerns and goals, the account
only balanced by epiphany.
Tales from the blazed and
burned reality of the recipient of
Nature's private feminine landscape
characterize a lunatic.

The man who recovers his
inner limits, who returns to be a
Hypocrite reader of the unknowable
will be mocked by all
Who belittle such artistic claims
and disputed by fools who
Claim to have survived the fate
of a poetic limbo overcome.

My brush glides in a flesh and
blood union with an all-mother,
Gaps in my sanity reflected by
skips and sparkles in the paint.
What do you want to know of me,
is it sexual, do I get off?
My soul is rejuvenated, but my
brain reels oxygen starved.

I am no different than in my
youth sitting atop my '55 wagon,
Painting into the overnight
murkiness of pure speculation.
I dream aloud and often, more
alone than any creature born
Of earth, or spirit or fantastic
mystical mind gone tripping out.

Allow me the peace  to practice
undisturbed and if you must
Make fun, delight the woman
who saved me with her blue insight.