Cultures of Sculptures
….this are the images of my heart,
wherein lies the nourishment for my soul,
taken across the canvas of landscaped forests of green,
and so the green is a living color that breathes of what i am….
—-have you entertained the thought of venting as a leaf,
on the back of an un-de-fined-un-re-fined wind,
accepting for the moment of moving time your delay of free will,
and so you ride the backside of this storm furore bearing gifts….
—-you are be-come the bearer of gifts,
leafing through the split ether zones,
casting off from heights of what used to be,
till now you settle on the terra tundra of ground in dirt….
—-what do you see as you stand now before this forest path,
will you take the time or make some time,
to view the scene that knocks for escape from before your face,
much as the colors will yet give freedom to one who embraces their splay….
….i rhythm write now,
as my heart beats out the pulsing salivates,
that flow from within my art-full soul,
and whereas there once remained the need to exist to create,
i am also now caught within this moment of furore,
that seeks to create in me a place of created imaging,
of what shall yet be,
if i can but carry this scene within my head,
and take what i have seen on back to my shop,
where cultures of sculptures await my re-turn,
so that i might ignite within the soul of wood,
some of the stories that i have seen….
....there i feel better now,
having gotten that one out,
and so it happens ever so often,
and sometimes more then i am accustomed to with passing age,
....that what i see often translates my being to the era of an-other age....
—-look herein and see all that will pass before your eyes, but know that soon this too will change to a pond of ice, where the green of ferns that speed with color, will all to soon give way to whiteness that awaits the coming dawn of day….
....the rapturous beauty of coming dawn of day,
that so seeks me out and caresses the cracks within my eyes,
eye salve that i might once again see with youth-full lambency,
where all was good before they came and took my crayons away….
....and yes i know better now how to play the game,
where pull and tug be-comes those tugs of war,
and even now so i awake from my dream of where if have been,
and gasp at what is but this dusk of coming night….
”....of all those tales i once painted with pencil and paper, few are the remains that come to gather round in times of age, for those were then of past memories that i have since tossed to wind, as now my hand reaches out and plucks the strings of wind to create again….”
-- --frank, NH, http://rusticwoodart.tumblr.com/