The Critic

First a preface:

As a new section to add to my usual collection of poetry and song lyrics I am going to start putting in various critics on art (plays, tv shows, movies, cd’s, performances, paintings, etc). Please be aware that I am new to this kind of writing and in my university touchy-feely-thispersonisanartistanddeservesahug-education I was not encouraged to write things negative, I was “encouraged” to see the positive in art, because “all art is good”. Well, I’m older now, and I say bull shit. I went to an art gallery the other day and an artist had a little piece of writing below her bio. The first sentence read “Being an artist is not a choice. It’s a way of life. ” It went on to say how art ruled her life and was inescapable. There were pieces that I could accept, but that first sentence stuck with me.

Art is all about choice. Choices in everything, every little nuance of a paint stroke, shirt, eye makeup, guitar note, abient noise, society. I think being an artist is about attempting to channel choice and not forgetting that choice doesn’t mean chance. Carpe Diem, right, the artist motto? Sure to an extent, be brave, enter each day who knows what it will bring, what great art will come of the day, but it is invariably overflowing with choice.

Choice does not dictate the artist. The Artist allows for the chance of choice.

A Father’s Memory (Version #3)

I smile at the camera.

I smile because I can’t yet see what’s behind things.

I can’t see behind my mother’s crooked smile.

I can’t see behind my father’s tired eyes.

I can’t see behind my grandpa’s labored hands.

All strained in an arthritic twist.

My arms are thin and pale,

Like my brother’s.

My mother’s arms are thick.

My father’s suit is pressed.

My grandpa’s skin is stormy.

All new and all ancient.

Family somehow seems that way,

And here we gather above stone steps:

A testament to the rigid fragility of generations.

We can’t wait to leave our post,

But the camera is new too

And we can hear the gears whine.

We can count the seconds before the flash.

We can hear immortality beckon.

John is off first

Care thrown to the wind as he runs across dried grass.

Bob is gone by the time I look back from John’s dust trail.

Aunt Bea settles Candy on the blanket in the shade of the cherry tree with a toy then joins the others.

I watch them smile and chat:

Dad, Aunt Bea, Uncle John, Aunt Joann

Grandpa Spence wanders away, vanishing in a plume of Velvet Tobacco pipe smoke.

All of the other kids have scattered.

For a time we are free.

Other times we all gather under huge trees

And gather walnuts into burlap potato sacks.

I want to help too, but mostly just want the green and black hands.

When that is accomplished I roll up my pants and do a handstand for Phyllis,

Who smiles at the blue above my heels.

Maybe she’ll draw me with my red face, eternally upside down.

Then I’m off to find Little John,

Who is probably ready to chase arrows in the mud at Anson’s Pond.

If we’re lucky we’ll get a few bullfrogs.

Maybe Dad will help us cut off the legs and skin ‘em.

We’ll laugh as they dance in the skillet’s hot grease,

Legs that remember the hop,

And be satisfied with our tasteful hunt.

I could tag along with Bob,

Who is probably watching the old guys down at McCord’s Park,

And watch the croquet balls going round and the horseshoes flying high.

Life for a time is simple.

Mom can fashion us boys new shirts and new dresses for Phyllis.

Dad can fix my watch.

Grandpa can shoot a .22 even while smoking a pipe and hit every time.

He keeps burying those cats in his garden,

But there is always a new stray climbing his favorite Redbud trees

Bothering his nesting birds the next day.

Tonight we might wander out into the yard.

We’ll catch a shooting star and search for Sputnik.

We’ll hide behind trees so that they won’t find us and bury us.

Phyllis crouches by the pear tree,

Little John and I run to the Soft Maples,

Bob coolly leans against the towering Elm.

When we’re not hiding in the trees from the cold war

We’ll be sweating during the high heat of the endless fields

Putting up hay and alfalfa for Kirby Arntzmeier and Mr. Jarmon.

It’s a lot of work for a little pay

And so to supplement our income we haul bottles for redemption from Higginsville to Corder.

I’ll ride my new Western Flyer ten-speed and Little John will ride his Coast King Banana Bike

And we’ll hit up Mattingly’s five and dime.

Then we’ll find some shade at the old railroad station and feast:

Chic-O-Sticks, frozen Zero Bars, Peanut Butter Logs, Wax Pops, Blackjack and Pepsin and Teaberry gum, all kinds of Chiclets, and always a Teaberry Shuffle.

It takes a while, at two cents per bottle, to get enough together to feast like this,

But man, is it worth it.

We are young, but our backs are hard.

We feast over candy after a hard days work in the image of our elders at a dinner table

Over a morning coffee, an evening smoke.

Our labor was not in vain.

Our songs were not unsung.

In the heavy haze of summer heat we break for a trip to the cabin.

We already know what to pack:

Worn out cut-offs and broken down tennis shoes to swim in, a pair of jeans, a couple of t-shirts,

Fishing gear and the .22 rifles.

Phyllis has her paper and various crayons, charcoal, pencils, pens, paint, all in tow

And doesn’t mind at all tucking away her dolls until we return…maybe she’ll bring just one.

Mom says “I better not see another scorpion in that indoor outhouse.”

Grandpa, who is stone deaf, asks, “What did she say?”

Dad shrugs and we all pile into the 1951 Studebaker “bullet nose” Commander

(Until we get to ride in style with a 1956 Studebaker wagon, Pelham model).

It’s a drive away still, but the excitement is in the air.

We pass the hay and alfalfa and corn and soybeans and the rolling fields of yellow grass

And then it’s a jog over to Clinton where we get 50-pound block of ice for the icebox.

The ice slides into a canvas drawstring bag onto a metal plate

And then is hauled to the Studebaker to journey with us to the cabin.

Little John always gets excited out by Deepwater

When the Burma Shave signs nailed on fence posts zipped by

“Thirty days…”

He reads

“Have September…”

Dad and Mom slightly shake their knowing heads (here we go again)

“April, June…”

We three sit up to attention in the back

“And the…”

Our unified voices rev up with the Studebaker

“Speed Offender!!! Burma Shave!!!”

We all get a little excited at that last turn

When a lonely tree as perfectly round as any tree in Missouri came into view.

We gaze at it, silhouetted tall and wide against the even bigger sky,

And wonder how things get to be so big in this world.

Down the dirt and gravel we rumble past the Ninnescah Park sign to the cabin.

We’d like to run off, but there’s always work.

Phyllis starts to sweep the wasps off of the floor,

Bob goes to the well to bring up water,

Little John heads off to start digging up fishing worms.

I struggle to drop the ice into the three-foot solid oak chest icebox.

I position it on the metal interior bed so that it isn’t blocking the drain.

After our chores are done Dad says he has a surprise for us

And as the plate lowers and the soft white bread comes into view we know, and our mouths water.

There is not much better than two fried slices of Spam dripping grease down your chin,

Putting a smile on faces.

To go with our Spamwich we each pick off some ice shavings to cool down our drinks.

Food has a way of lighting up a face tired from a hard days work

(You may even forget about the smell of Champo Phenique for a while).

Grandpa Spence even smiles as he eats his garden tomato

Sliced thin enough to read a newspaper through, shook white with salt, then black with pepper-

Entire tomato, man.

The Spam never lasts and it’s time to catch some fish.

Bob, Little John, and I pile into the aluminum ‘Arkansas Traveler’

And Dad kicks up the 1951 Mercury five horse outboard motor.

The Osage River is slow and lazy

And our worms look little and pathetic dragging through the muddy water.

Time seems to come to a crawl as we drift

Unless we are lucky enough to spot a few turtles bathing on a log.

Little John gets to shoot the .22 first, next is my turn, then Bob’s.

The turtle is just hanging over the log now, but Dad never misses.

The .22 makes a final crack and the turtle flips into the air and splashes into the water below.

We hoot and holler, throwing our fists in the air until Dad says

“Stop rocking the boat, you’ll scare the fish.”

I lay back in the boat and watch the sun dance through the sparse trees lining the water’s edge.

Life is a breeze and I could just lay here and float forever, but the fish start biting

And by the time our boat trip is finished we’re weighed down with

Buffalo, Carp, Catfish, Drums, Walleyes, and maybe a bullfrog or two.

We’d have more fish, but nobody wants to eat a Gar.

The Osage weaves its way into our days.

Its gravel bars provide hours of fun swimming, sun bathing, skipping stones, prying open clams,

Looking for the elusive Blue-tailed Skink.

The gravel bars also provided endless pain with its wasps, bumblebees, scorpions, ants, and the worst: Chiggers.

Osage got us dirty and, with the help of a bar of soap, kept us clean.

The soap passes among our little hands and we dare one another to go up the well

And dump a bucket of ice-cold water over the head.

“What’s the matter? Scared of a little brain-freeze?”

We feel like giants in the shallow water, but a trip up to Buzzards Roost will fill your heart with wonder

Where even the Osage looks small against the landscape

And the countless miles of hills that dodge their way into the sun.

We all know and understand that this was a big ol’ world

And that there was no sense in challenging that reality.

We still dreamed deeply in our beds

(Unless you got the army cot, then you were lucky to sleep at all).

I wake up an old man with sons of my own.

The hills and rivers of my family have changed,

But there is still comfort in a cup of warm coffee, a game of cribbage, a toss of a horseshoe,

A float in a faded green Old Towne canoe.

Some memories seem to be lost in the folds of wrinkles as others are born.

All new and all ancient. 

A Father’s Memory

I smile at the camera.

I smile because I can’t yet see what’s behind things.

I can’t see behind my mother’s crooked smile.

I can’t see behind my father’s tired eyes.

I can’t see behind my grandpa’s labored hands.

All strained in an arthritic twist.

My arms are thin and pale,

Like my brothers.

My mother’s arms are thick.

My father’s suit is pressed.

My grandpa’s skin is stormy.

All new and all ancient.

Family somehow seems that way,

And here we gather above stone steps:

A testament to the rigid fragility of generations.

We can’t wait to leave out post,

But the camera is new too

And we can hear the gears wine.

We can count the seconds before the flash.

We can hear immortality beckon.

John is off first

Care thrown to the wind as he runs across dried grass.

Bob is gone by the time I look back from John’s dust trail.

Aunt Bea settles Candy on the blanket with a toy then joins the others.

I watch them smile and chat:

Dad, Aunt Bea, Uncle John, Aunt Joann

Grandpa Spence wanders away, vanishing in a cloud of pipe smoke.

All of the other kids have scattered.

For a time we are free.

Other times we all gather under huge trees

And gather walnuts into burlap potato sacks.

I want to help too, but mostly just want the green and black hands.

When that is accomplished I roll up my pants and do a handstand for Phyllis,

Who smiles at the blue above my heels.

Maybe she’ll draw me with my red face, eternally upside down.

Then I’m off to find Little John,

Who is probably ready to chase arrows in the mud at Anson’s Pond.

If we’re lucky we’ll get a few bull frogs.

Maybe Dad will help us cut off the legs and skin ‘em.

We’ll laugh as they dance in the skillet’s hot grease.

Legs that remember the hop,

And be satisfied with our tasteful hunt.

I could tag along with Bob,

Who is probably watching the old guys down at McCord’s Park,

Watching the croquet balls going round and the horsehoes flying high.

Life for a time si simple.

Mom can wash out our grass stained pants.

Dad can fix my watch.

Grandpa can shoot a .22 even while smoking a pipe

And hit every time.

He keeps burying those cats in his garden,

But there is always a new stray to bother his birds the next day.

Tonight we might wander out to the yard

We’ll catch a shooting star and search for Sputnik.

We’ll hide behind trees so that they won’t find us and bury us.

When we’re not hiding in the trees from the cold war

We’ll be sweating during the high heat of the endless fields

Putting up hay and alfalfa for Kirby Arntzmeier and Mr. Jarmon.

It’s a lot of work for a little pay

And so to supplement our income we haul bottles for redemption from Higginsville to Corder.

I’ll ride my new ten speed, Little John will ride his Coast King Banana Bike

And we’ll hit up Mattingly’s five and dime.

Then we’ll find some shade and feast:

Cic-o-sticks, frozen zero bars, peanut butter logs, wax pops, blackjack and pepsin and teaberry gum, all kinds of chicklets, and always a teaberry shuffle.

It takes a while, at two cents per bottle, to get enough together to feast like this,

But man, is it worth it.

We are young, but our backs are hard.

We feast over candy after a hard days work in the image of our elders at a dinner table

Over a morning coffee, an evening smoke.

Our labor was not in vain.

Our songs were not unsung.

In the heavy haze of summer heat we break for a trip to the cabin.

We already know what to pack:

Swimsuits, fishing gear, plenty of socks.

Phyllis has her paper and various crayons, pencils, pens, paint, all in tow

And doesn’t mind at all tucking away her dolls until we return…maybe she’ll bring just one.

Mom says “I better not see another scorpion in that indoor outhouse.”

Grandpa says “What did she say?”

Dad shrugs and we all pile into the 1951 Sudebaker “bullet nose” Commander

(until we get to ride in style with a 1956 Sudebaker wagon, Pelham model.)

It’s a drive away still, but the excitement is in the air.

We pass the hay and alfalfa fields and corn and soybeans and the rolling fields of yellow grass

And then it’s a jog over to Clinton where we get 50 pounds of ice for the ice box.

Little John always gets excited out by Deepwater

When the Burma Shave signs nailed on fence posts zipped by

“Thirty days…”

He reads

“Have September…”

Dad and Mom slightly shake their knowing heads (here we go again)

“April, June…”

We three sit up to attention in the back

“and the…”

Our unified voices rev up with the Studebaker

“Speed Offender!!! Burma Shave!!!”

We all get a little excited at that last turn

When a lonely tree as perfectly round as any tree in Missouri came into view.

We gaze at it, silhouetted tall and wide against the even bigger sky.

Down the dirt and gravel we rumble past the Ninnescah Park sign to the cabin.

We’d like to run off, but there’s always work.

Phyllis starts to sweep the wasps off of the floor,

Little John and I go tot the well to bring up water,

Bob heads off to start digging up fishing worms.

After our chores are done Dad says he has a surprise for us

And as the plate lowers and the soft white bread comes into view we know, and our mouths water.

There is not much better than two fried slices of Spam dripping grease down your chin,

Putting a smile on faces.

Food has a way of lighting up a face tired from a hard days work.

Grandpa Spence even smiles as he eats his garden tomato

Sliced thin enough o read a newspaper through, shook white with salt, then black with pepper-

Entire tomato, man.

The Spam never lasts and it’s time to catch some fish.

Bob, Little John, and I pile into the aluminum ‘Arkansas Traveler’

And Dad kicks up the 1951 Mercury five horse outboard motor.

The Osage river is slow and lazy and our worms look little and pathetic dragging through the muddy water.

Time seems to come to a crawl as we drift

Unless we are lucky enough to spot a few turtles bathing on a log.

Little John gets to shoot the .22 fist, next is my turn, then Bob’s.

The turtle is just hanging over the log now, but Dad never misses.

The .22 makes a final crack and the turtle flips into the air and splashes into the water below.

We hoot and holler, throwing our fists in the air until Dad says “Stop rocking the boat, you’ll scare the fish.”

I lay back in the boat and watch the sun dance through the sparse trees lining the water’s edge.

Life is a breeze and I could just lay here and float forever, but the fish start biting

And by the time our boat trip is finished we’re weighed down with

Buffalo, Carp, Catfish, Drums, Walleyes, and maybe a bullfrog or two.

We’d have more fish, but nobody wants to eat a Gar.

The Osage weaves its way into our days.

Its gravel bars provide hours of fun swimming, sun bathing, skipping stones, prying open clams, looking for the elusive blue tailed skink.

The gravel bars also provided endless pain with its wasps, bumblebees, scorpions, ants, and the worst: chiggers.

Osage got us dirty and, with the help of a bar of soap, kept us clean.

The soap passes among our little hands and we dare one another to go up the well

And dump a bucket of ice cold water over the head.

“What’s the matter? Scared of a little brain-freeze?”

We feel like giants in the shallow water, but a trip up to Buzzards Roost will fill your heart with wonder.

Even the Osage looked small against the landscape

And the countless miles of hills that dodged their way into the sun.

We all knew and understood that this was a big ole world and there was no challenging that reality.

We still dreamed deeply in our beds

(unless you got the army cot, then you were lucky to sleep at all.)

I wake up an old man with sons of my own.

The hills and rivers of my family have changed,

But there is still comfort in a cup of warm coffee, a game of cribbage, a toss of a horse shoe,

a float in a green Old Towne canoe.

Some memories seem to be lost in the folds of wrinkles as others are born.

All new and all ancient. 

Reasons why I am (not) a poet:

At times I don’t rhyme

in fact almost never.

I construct my own linguistic logic

And leave grammar off the payroll

I don’t use a thesaurus

Or a dictionary

Unless I’m pleasure reading.

I’m far too concerned with the history of words.

Words

I change my mind more than my socks

And that’s a lot

Except for when I go barefoot

Which is sometimes

Maybe that doesn’t matter to me.

Like Politics

I’m indifferent to the point of anger

And then I think about it far too much

Until words comfort actions

Words.

Like my past

I lull over my past

And continuously get ill over it’s disease

I form and reform and at times attempt to conform

And cry over my failures at getting reborn.

My literal bleeds into figurative

And at times pass for metaphor;

I don’t sleep late

I’m an insomniac

I never dream.

I watch far too many movies

And listen to absurd amounts of music

I hardly read enough

I’m a sporadic study

And am enticed by the slightest movement

I like to keep things clean

And orderly

Even if it never really happens

I think religion is a dog game.

But I can’t really explain why

I hate poetry.

I love poetry.

I am poetry.

I am

(not)

a Poet.

due to the lack of a computer there will be a lapse for new posts, feel free to browse…

could we dance later?