In this blog we will share with you our vision of beauty, balance, harmony.

As Mark Leach writes in his book Raw Colour with Pastels: “Sound is all around us, and it is musicians who refine that sound into something of beauty. As a painter, I have always felt that my purpose is to craft colour in a similar way, to see through the confusion and seek harmony and beauty.”

And we add: Words, fragments of sentences, spoken noise is all around us, and Ken arranges words in such a way as to capture beauty in the accidental, the ambient soundtrack of life.

Sunday, May 25, 2014

Forest Reflections

Waldgeschmack - Forest Flavour 60 x 80 cm mixed media on multi media board


At first you reminded
me of someone I should avoid.
Someone rough or merely

too energetic, like three power plants
hooked up to a weapon of mass destruction.

In the evening pale glitter
luster of frozen sequins
and morning dress as somber as
a priest’s raiment. Ten thousand days

till spring till spring till fucking spring.

Let me ease your troubled mind
a shrink said to me from his peeling stoop,
sounding like the lyric of a Simon and Garfunkel song.

Standing up straight, he looked better,
cleaner, more qualified. All of a sudden!
But he still wore that wild blond afro.

Nonetheless, I was intrigued.
Never had I had pigeon pie before.
I slowly began to connect it up

to an ethnic identity thing. An “issue.”
Her eyes were full of that challenge. I cracked through its crust.

Hips. Thighs. Breasts. Hair. Of child-
bearing breadth. A slight twitch of muscle
beneath downy skin. Present but not
overly insistent, the tips of which seeking air
however and lips. Every day a good one.

I knew he was in trouble when he started tap dancing.
I knew I was in trouble because he looked just like Fred Astaire.
Look, Fred, I said, I’ve never been much of a fan.

Likewise, he said, but my name’s Gene, asshole, not Fred.

Winter is a drained snow cone.
Spring is pollen dusted jogging shoes.
Summer is sweat. All the time.
Fall is just a variation on autumn.

Shards of pigeon pie. Pinot Grigio spilled in her lap.
Outside the trees whisper to each other, peer
through the window, gossip fitfully.

Wind clutches at us all. Yokes common misunderstandings together.
Who should repair the light switch? Flash the stones?
Take me to the shore is all I ask. A place to bask, soak, dissolve.

Simon and Garfunkel

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