This old house once knew my children This old house once knew my wife This old house was home and comfort As we fought the storms of life
There is a voice in the trees
i can hear it from the asylum window
the priest is at odds with himself
about my condition
there is a voice in the trees
it hovers just beyond the river’s bend over there.
the world is at odds with itself
about situation like this
there is a lady in a room of no windows
there is a lady in a room purged of love
i am at odds with priests and worlds
there is a humming lady,
in a room,
in the trees,
where the river bends,
– T C Cannon
Cannon, who died when he was just 31, made enduring and vibrant works melding Native American and more mainstream artistic and pop culture imagery.
He had an eye for these things.
But I had the soul.
The art of the moment, wasted with lies.
With all the chatter of aperture and metered light.
Exposures in a dark room.
You, looking for that idyllic covered bridge.
Me, searching for meaning to the words, ‘just live.’
As your dark room comes into contrast with my life.
The question still remains,
‘what of the devil you tried to tame?’
With a generation, come and gone,
I will right your wrong.
with all your attempts to school me…
All your photographed Rockwell ideology…
The shuttering speed of Americana.
All this and more, such great expectations.
Not a single tutored self-portrait.
a guild full of
Petals in the pines…I have come here…once again
with your loving colors for the fevered mind
And, the circling of blackbirds to speak to me of the shape I am in
A little girl’s dream of…
lime and lemon hue
Spinning in the dance under the moon’s harvest
the autumn of sun’s riches