I was born in Clarksville, Tennessee and reside in Murfreesboro, Tennessee. I am the publisher and editor of ArtPage Images and the webmaster of Artvilla.com. I am an engineer, artist, poet, songwriter and musician. My art is in several locations on the internet. It has been used by Verse Libre to illustrate poetry. My style of abstraction is best described as shapism. My abstractions are almost representational. I believe that the abstract shape is the ultimate form of representational art because it is 'the thing itself,' the ultimate realism."
My approach to poetry isn't really an approach. I just write them. Sometimes I delete words, but rarely add words. I don't know what I'm going to say before I say it. I never set out to write a poem on a pre-selected subject. I sometimes end up crying because I dug deeply. I never set out to dig that deeply into myself, but sometimes do. It all comes from not having a subject going into the poem. I really think this is common to many modern poets. We end up with some words, and, we didn't set out to write those words. Those words reveal who we are but quite unintentionally. A poet simply puts the cup under the faucet and turns the knob. I can write a poem anytime I want to. The trick is to want to. Sometimes I rhyme accidentally and realize it later. Mostly I just throw something down as a first line and see where it leads. I don't plan endings but know when they occur. It's the ending of short poems that grabs me.
Waiting
waiting
not just waiting
but
waiting for the gold, yes baby the gold
we are gonna rob the train and get
the gold
mamma baby there's no end to it
we are a gonna be rich rich rich
yessirree
rob the train and get the gold
yesssirrreee
oh boy
I can hear them a talkin' right now
"That boy never amounted to
nuthin, just some trailer trash
who woulda thought he'd rob the train. Boy I wish I had that
gold"
yessirreee all the way to the bank baby
and when the sunrise
makes the desert warm
and the flowers open
we'll be there
waiting
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Stalker
There is indeed a stalker in my dream
He waits among the broccoli sprouts
Waiting for me to pass as an ant today
Today I shall be the smallest ant in the field
I shall carry the pieces of leaves toward
Pyramids
I shall ride in your collar and wonder at your
Life
I shall wonder at the cashier, the driver, the toll
gate worker, so many strangers
You'd think I'd have seen them all by now
So many like me
Engineer with prints, artist with canvas, musician with violin of very
old wood,
So many to the slaughter, so many like me
Walt's wagoneer is now the semi-trailer driver
The same staunch strength, he has not changed
So many like me
The press operator stamps parts with earplugs in place
His grandfather the blacksmith is in his hands, in his feet
They are the same among so many
This farmer's son has wide feet for the plowed earth,
Sits in his cubicle without the need for wide feet
Writes poems he does, this ant in your collar
Shreds leaves
Builds pyramids
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So I Guess
She asks me to write a poem so,
I guess,
I will,
so, I guess the world might somehow still be here
tomorrow, and
I will still be considered an idiot,
so, I guess that qualifies me,
so, I guess, I will put the commas in,
and,
wish
I could see you again
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Bottles in the Sea
sorry:
oh one who passes messages by bottles in the sea!
can you see me
can you hear me
oh one who passes dreams across the winds!
can you see me
can you hear me
maybe yes in the morning and no in the
afternoon and maybe tonight we will
ride the wind~~~
these are bottles in the sea
sealed by small hands of children
too young or too old to
struggle with answers
or questions
may we all still be young enough
to roll our message
into the bottle
may we
all be careful with the sealing
may we
have enough faith
to throw it
with all our might
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Summer Breeze
I love the summer breeze
the much needed
summer breeze
the passenger creek in the broken warm red greens
summer breeze
the soft winter calls and waits for spring,
summer breeze
I have been advised
it is eminent
so be advised
you silent springs
you almost quiet mornings
you songs of the hopi
summer music
the long grey shadows only
highlight the obvious
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The Fire
The fire is not out
It burns like fire, like pain, like, you know, pain
Water waiter, water for my fire, water, sweet clear cool water
Words won't do. Words or work won't do
The sword sinks deep, yes, deeply into the underbelly, into the abyss
And the words find no favor
eat the peach, man, eat the peach, yes, dare, next time, next time, next time
Is there time left?
time between growing up and growing old
time between the river and the sea
Eat the peach, man
eat the peach
It is good
it is sweet
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and an archive of his poetry at Moongate