I have lived and worked on Long Island, New York, for most of my life. The
artist, Francis Bacon once said, “If you can talk about it why paint it?”
For many years my “voice” was the paintbrush and printmaking media. I was
fortunate to have my lithographs and etchings sold internationally in the
process. At the same time, I was raising a rather large family, and looking
for a field of work which paid health insurance. I found one, working on a
Mac in Photoshop giving rock singers and other famous people smooth,
flawless complexions. This enabled me to take care of my family and write on
a little pad next to my computer. (I wrote my best “work poems” during this
time.) For reasons I am not clear about, I began to “talk” more and paint
less. With language, as well as image, it is the constant distillation of
meaning which fascinates me...to try and try again to get all the
superfluous out. I believe I will always be working and reworking toward
that goal.
At this time, when I am not writing or doing work with images, I work with emotionally disturbed children. I do this because I feel very strongly that even one happy memory will perhaps sustain a child through bad times. We ride bikes, go to the ballet, make up stories, write poems and anything else that I think might work.
Shadow
Look how the shadow
hits the side of the house.
The sun has shot out of
gray banks of clouds
and touched the house
with a golden flare
leaving filigreed tracings
of gray upon gray
in a field of maize.
Stop right there!
Don't turn your back
to check the time.
Don't look away
to tie your shoe or close the door.
Keep your eyes on that nebula
and watch how it moves
and fades, comes back
in a brilliant burst
and then is gone.
Top of the Page.
Kayaking in Fog
There is no demarcation out here in the bay
where the tidal water meets the sky.
Just faint hints of where one
leaves off and the other begins.
I am back to my beginnings in this place
where I roll and turn in the saline waters of safety
attached like the umbilicus to my paddle
dipping in and out where the sea and the sky
bleed through to each other
meeting and mixing in the broth of life.
Top of the Page.
In Front of the A&L Feed Store
I was sitting in a pick-up truck
In front of the A&L Feed Store
Waiting for life to take a turn
A little girl was standing right
In front of me, receiver to her ear
Coins in, dial, two rings, hang up
Come on Dad, pick up
She had a system going—
Coins in, dial, two rings, hang up
Come on Dad, pick up.
I started to get used to the rhythm
Time stood still The wind stopped
Coins in, dial, two rings, hang up
Come on Dad, pick up
A friend came over to pull
Her away, but she turned her back
To the rest of the world as if she
And the phone were all that was left
Coins in, dial, two rings, hang up
Come on Dad, pick up
Her friend got tired of waiting—
Wandered away.
Even time flew on to catch a train
She stood there alone
Coins in, dial, two rings, hang up.
Come on Dad, pick up
Top of the Page.
Broken Lizard
I spent the day putting
You back together
Your serpentine form flowing
From curved tail to upraised head
You are one of us now
Broken and patched together
With missing minute fragments
Imprinted by your journey
Not as perfect as you had once been
Your surface meshed with fault lines
Revealing glimpses
Of your clay beginnings
There is a proud beauty in you now—
A long endurance
Top of the Page.
Birds In The Parking Lot
Each morning at eight
I hear the birds singing
in the parking lot at work.
I approach the doors to my day
with abject grief as I enter
the man-made world of
process and points.
While they are out there
feeling the air turn from
August heat to autumn chill,
gathering together like the tribes
of Abraham, I am in the grips of
microbe-filled ducts pushing
frigid air into my cubicle
as the flickering fluorescent lights
become my sun.
While they are out there
flying and feasting
for the long flight south,
I am anchored to the cold glare
of a square screen as I send
false messages to the world.
While they are out there
flying further and further
in the golden gleam of light,
I am pinned to the paved path
of roads and alleyways
inching my way like a worm—
to work and back
to work and back.
Top of the Page.
Sardines
She got what she asked for.
After all, there weren't many
requests that year for the
silvery, slithery skin of
the sardine. She had been
unhappy with her own skin
for some time now, and all
it took was opening up that
can one day (sardines are full
of fatty omega acids) and
seeing how the light played
on those opalescent morsels
nested in there side by side—
dorsal fins tucked in, scattered
dark spots splashed against
crystal scales, adding just
the right touch of contrast.
She wondered if she would
have to give up her steaks,
learn how to sift zooplankton
through her teeth. It's been
a year now and she still gets
pleasure from the heads she
turns, walking down the street.
Top of the Page.
Letter to the Author: Barbara Southard.
at bsouthard677@hotmail.com