Rusted

The Rusted Truck

There’s a time in our life when we pass
what’s in front — those blocking our way
in the hurry of youth.
Motor flat out, foot heavy on pedal,
tires flaunt tread, freedom thrums in the night,
and sleek curves of chrome… shimmer.

Then comes the time when we hesitate —
maybe passing or maybe not,
when journey triumphs destination.
Grit rests on floorboards ‘round
hard knocks from difficult roads.
Features of youth still present, but fading
like romance in maturity … a savoring.

Next is the time when we stay in the slow lane,
just travel down roads that feel more like home.
The color of paint takes on a whimsy
as holes in the floorboard start small.
Rust scabs on wounds of scratches and dents
that heal into scars … of miles gone by.

Finally, the time comes to rest in a field,
respected for aging, and still in one piece.
Patina like velvet infused with the natural,
mirrors gone, oil clogged, seat worn,
fractures in glass dim like cataracts and,
dreams die in weeds by the barnyard.

Stories forgotten of travel and living —
regrets and decisions that landed us here.
Then off in the distance an artist approaches
who pauses and captures, in paint, what she sees.

This poem was written by Debra Simmons in response to my painting "Rusted III". We were paired randomly as author and artist for the Word and Image Project for the Hoffman Center for the Arts in Manzanita, Oregon. I feel that she was able to put in to words the thoughts I had when I first saw the truck. I knew that there were so many stories in all that rust, if only it could speak and tell them to me. I really appreciate the opportunity to work with her and look forward to more shared experiences. 

Sunday Dinner

Good Intentions

There was so much horseradish
in the cocktail sauce that
we couldn’t eat the crab…
my favorite.

Stray ashes from cigarettes
mingle with parsley and paprika
on crusty potatoes topped with cheese
and corn on the cob slathered in butter.

A spent matchstick hangs
on the old china platter
holding a brown crispy pork roast
bound up in white string.

The cake slips sideways
like Tommy’s toupee,
husband number seven,
as they pour themselves another drink.

My parents exchange looks
of disgust, then depart.
Such was Sunday dinner
at Grandma’s house.

This poem was written by Debra Simmons. She and I were paired randomly together for the Word and Image Project at the Hoffman Center for the Arts in Manzanita, Oregon. My painting is in response to her poem. She also wrote a poem in response to "Rusted III" that I will share tomorrow. This was a great experience and challenged both of us in many ways. The greatest reward was the newfound friendship we created in being paired together. As we met and discussed each other's work we found that we shared many past experiences, outlooks on life, and artistic styles. I don't believe in coincidence and am grateful that we were brought together. I look forward to future inspirations that will come my way.

Concept Sketch

I am working with a writer in a collaborative project with the Hoffman Center. She wrote a poem and I am responding to it through a painting. This is one concept sketch I've done for it. I have a good image in my head, but haven't completely committed to this idea. I'm going to play with another idea today and see what happens.