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
the Four Freedoms
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at the Edge of America
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,
over there. – T C Cannon
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Dark Room
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.
Teacher,
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.
Yet,
a guild full of
artistic misconduct.
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a Fevered Mind
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
and
the autumn of sun’s riches
