Landscape

How deep the snow,
how tall the trees
among whose tops we trod? 

How many waves
have washed the stones
that lie along the shore?

From sea level
to snow level,
the gulls and ferns and more--

He paints the canvas
where we walk,
a bounteous artist, God.

The Sculptor Poses

A Magpie Tale

Daguerreotype, ca. 1850

Be still, Bastet.
Our friends have gone
to some expense
to acquire "something
to remember us by,"
though how a thing so flat,
so smooth, could aid
their memories a whit,
I cannot say.

I could sculpt their souls,
you know, build up each virtue,
gouge out each vice,
carve forgiveness in deep relief,
smooth some with their kindness,
scar others with mistakes.
I could put nobility 
and baseness on display,
covered with a filigree 
of laughter or tears,
the feelings of years.

But if they came to see
with only their eyes,
they would not know themselves.

Seeing Red

A Magpie Tale

Flying Down (detail), 2006, by David Salle

 

lost his tempera

a tempest in a paintpot

everybody duck

 

 

 

Haunted House

A Magpie Tale

She tries to be a gracious host
to an audience of ghosts,
gliding through the mist
to see the chairs are set just so.

It's hard to plan, not knowing
who is coming, when they're going.
Still she tries to organize
a captivating show.

Striving to improve her best
with each song or dance or jest,
no matter what the size, she tries
to render well her part.

The few bouquets she gathers,
strewn like iridescent feathers,
fall mutely through the fog,
but she holds them to her heart.

Nature's Paintbrush

A Magpie Tale

Indian Paintbrush, Johnston Ridge, 2011

Nature's paintbrush

works in simple strokes--

seeds sown pointillistically

blossom into meadows;

single snowflakes coalesce,

growing glistening glaciers--

minutely redecorating

the canvas she blanked

in yesterday's grand gesture.

Mt. St. Helens, 2011

Final Touches

A Magpie Tale

He left the frame among the sheets
on the bed in the home of his son.
Splintered, decayed,
it could hold its piece no more.
The artless fragments are gently laid by.

Solemn descendents assemble
in the empty gallery,
remembering the scene:
      pines crown the arid mesa
      behind the apple tree and daisies
      that he coaxed to bloom and bear
      he found the formulae, tacitly bestowed
      elements of wisdom on children, too
      they recall their own faces
      applied in indelible oils
      and the elegant figure of the artist
      who shared his studio for so, so long

Perhaps he'll show her first,
then submit the canvas for review
by the One who gave him brush and paints,
who applies the final refinements
with tender strokes;
who will restore the frame,
infuse it with enduring element,
replace the dust with polish, gilt,
and fit it to his lifescape
forever.


For my grandfather, Ross D. Gardner, 1914-2010

Tongue of Angels

A Magpie Tale

"Let me out, that I may sing!"
The sculptor hears the plea, his art
to coax the lively parts
from the silent stone.
Chiselling, polishing, bit by bit
her face emerges, song so sweet,
singing praises to the Divine
that his heart hums,
but his voice cannot express.  He shows
his faith the only way he knows:
through diligent hard work.

Complete, he fixes her high on the wall.
Aloft, she calls, inspiring
perspiring mortals to rest within,
to sing the joyous song of redeeming love.

Few have ears to hear.
Time passes.
Faith falters.
Chapels crumble.

The mason's art is replaced by bricks,
cinder blocks, reinforced concrete:
men's mimicry of stone,
fashioned in their own image,
to their liking.

Few remain who remember.
Appeals fail
to raise the fallen angel
from her pile of rubble.

Within she faithfully waits,
eyes lifted, lips poised
to join the mountains' shouts of joy,
to give tongue with the stones
when the Creator comes again.