| 2020 Art Gets in Your Eyes |
Highland Park, Illinois enjoys an impressive collection of outdoor public art located throughout the streets, trails and parks of the City. Highland Park Poetry urged writers to go on a treasure hunt of discovery and find poetic inspiration among the sculptures, mosaics, stained glass and more throughout the City's streets, trails and parks. The idea is that ekphrastic poems might expand community awareness and appreciation of the public art, perhaps leading to new understanding by both readers and viewers. Winning poems from the contest are published on temporary signs installed near the sculptures from June through September as well as on Highland Park Poetry’s Muses’ Gallery of Highland Park Poetry’s website.
Art works are identified by both their title, artist and an assigned number corresponding to a list in the back which includes the location and address. A few of the art works have more than one poem. The judge was allotted some discretion to select multiple poems for a sculpture if they provided alternate perspectives.
Thanks to all of the poets who were inspired by the project and shared their poems with us. We were thrilled to connect with writers in other parts of the United States and even other countries. We were overjoyed to discover local poets here at home whose voices we’d not heard before.
Thanks to Sylvia Riojas Vaughn, our guest judge, for making the difficult decisions of which poems to publish from the many marvelous poems submitted.
Thanks to John Adorjan and Gail Goepfert for their photography talents.
Thanks to Carol Spielman Lezak for her invaluable assistance in researching the artists.
Thanks to the City of Highland Park, Highland Park Public Library, Keyth Security, North Shore School District 112, Park District of Highland Park, Ravinia Festival and The Art Center of Highland Park for their kind support of this project and permission to temporarily display the poems adjacent to the art work on their property.
Enjoy!
Jennifer Dotson
Founder & Program Coordinator
www.HighlandParkPoetry.org
P.S. Regretfully, Ravinia Festival is closed for the 2020 season due to the coronavirus pandemic. We hope to offer the temporary display for those sculptures on the Ravinia Festival campus. Also missing from public view at this time is Mary Block's Boy on a Swing. The sculpture is presently in storage awaiting restoration before installation in its new home, a tree next to the Police Department.
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| 1 – Staffs by Margaret Lanterman |
| Within Reach
One hand reaching out
is one hand
more
than what you had before
In one hand
steely strength
the flow of blood
and nerve
Take this hand:
when our fingertips
touch
we may know
each other
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| 2 – Sun Wheel by Steve Leucking |
Sun Wheel
By Nancy J. Heggem
Observe the Sacred Circle,
Its shadow on the ground.
See the hours of day pass upon the sand.
Feel the sun’s heat on your head.
Breathe the earth’s sweet air around you.
Hear the wind sweep across the lake.
Soon moonrise, so large, so close,
will wrap you in its embrace.
The rocks lose their life color
as the moon sucks the earth’s day.
Without the sun, moon is all,
the sky three dimensional.
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| 3 – Solstice Supper (After Chagall) Mosaic by Laura Marie Sanchez & Anne Rogers |
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| John Adorjan Photographer |
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Jackson Square At Night, New Orleans
By Amelia Cotter
I reach longingly through the ether and finally I connect
As though I’ve been here before,
I feel I’m now coming home.
Brushing fingertips with a ghost, I sense history all around me
Acknowledging synchronicity,
I’m nourished with deep gratitude.
I reflect on my past and push the darkness away, for once
I surrender to present joy and recognize all that is greater
than me.
Setting intentions, I believe I can practice love
My isolation thrust always deep, down, away… I wonder if I can free us now,
and let lonely hope back in.
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The Googolplex Years
By Colleen McManus Hein
You wore a sombrero, I, a grassy hula skirt. We
rushed through green lawn Junes, crunchy Octobers.
We were spies. The old woman in the house behind
was a predator, the mailman a thief. Shrubs were
for scurrying and darting. We reeked of danger.
Dirt was cold silk, our days crushed pine. We whittled
spear sticks and raked red leaves into pointy pyramids.
Sunsets were dire, tarred asphalt split nights in two.
Cells multiplied, spoiling the shimmery summer seasons.
The last day in that feral world was the one I threw
a guitar at your head. Why did I do it?
When I saw the blood on your brow, I think I knew
we were too old for radiance.
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| 4 – Large Narrow Horse by Jozef Sumichrast |
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| John Adorjan Photographer |
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| Large Narrow Horse
By Eli Rollman
Large. Narrow. Horse.
My name describes me. Perfectly.
I have no need nor desire
For a more boastful name.
I’m no War Admiral or Bold Ruler.
Simple and direct.
No bejeweled saddle, no gilded bridle.
Proud to stand here
In my unadorned equine beauty.
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| 5 – Augusta Rosenwald Memorial by Jens Jensen |
the land he saw
By Becky Mueller
was sweeping stretches, lateral
branches cut
across
blue horizon, horizontal,
everywhere horizontal
upright cornstalks bearing
snow’s weight,
hawthorn limbs gnarled
as a mother’s hand
skirt of pines
glimpse of
pond, sunlit clearing
prairies clothed in colors
wales fringed with trees
coaxing, coaxing
the eye toward more
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| Jennifer Dotson, Photographer |
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| 6 – Music for a While by Richard Hunt |
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| Gail Goepfert, Photographer |
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| Baby Metal
By Kerry Leaf
Rock-a-bye metal
Near the treetops,
When the breeze blows
The music will rock.
When the chords break
The harmony grows strong,
While metals point skyward
Amid symphony and song.
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| Jennifer Dotson, Photographer |
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| 7 – David & Yonatan by Boaz Vaadia |
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| Gail Goepfert, Photographer |
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David and Yonatan
By Merle Tovian
Shiny silver coils wind and bind together the two figures as one
Supporting each other - one barely separated from the other
Eternal friendship, eternally connected
As close as two can be to one
One supporting the other without break
One leaning against the other without fear
David and Yonatan eternally bound in the silver, shiny coils of youth, of friendship
Of caring, of support, of connection
| Partners
By Lennart Lundh
We grow by means of addition, layers of
lessons and experience rising from cradle
to grave, attractions and repulsions that
manage to adhere, perhaps become
coherent should luck and others guide us.
This, too, is how our friendship grows, as
much from difference and antagonism as the
common good, love first seen as a spot
floating erratic across our vision, the ties
that hold us together invisibly solid.
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| 8 – Two Seated Figures I by Lynn Chadwick |
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| Gail Goepfert, Photographer |
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| Fortress As Duet in Latter Days
By Linda Imbler
Nothing to be heard, but heartbeats and sighs
we hear inside each other’s heads,
as gentle breeze and rhythm.
The cosmic magnificence
of our mutual mantra, chanted in tandem,
over decades.
Simple plans, and actions assented,
remedies, good medicine accrued,
long forgotten laughter, and so few regrets.
Thoughts, recollections, secrets,
inside a fortress only we two,
during so many years, could engineer.
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| 9 – Standing Woman by Fernando Botero |
Dressed to Impress
By Judith Stern Friedman
They said I would harbor a spot on the green,
Where people would gather—a civilized scene—
To hear the classics of Mozart and Bach,
The jazz of Ramsey, the rhythms of rock.
They said I would be an objet d’art,
That my presence would set the tone from the start.
And so I dressed in my concert attire:
Feathered cloche, fitted gloves, fancy heels, underwire.
Polka dot pleats would flatter my waist,
My presence a statement of high-fashion taste.
Once sculpted and packed in a crate to be shipped,
I flew from Spain—what a dizzying trip!
Now decades later, still single and tall,
I oversee lovers and picnickers all.
Ears to the sounds of the orchestra’s dance,
My only regret: I wish I wore pants!
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| Gail Goepfert, Photographer |
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| 10 – Silent Music by Jaume Plensa |
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| Gail Goepfert, Photographer |
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| Silent Music
By Kerry Leaf
Composer’s fifth
Hear rhythms sound,
Note vibrant beats,
Sharps, flats abound.
Discordant chords,
Octaves and bass,
Treble G Clefs
Dance on my face.
Eighth, quarter notes
Surround my knees,
Piano joy jolts,
Staccato, please!
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| 11 – untitled (Violinist Fountain) by Sylvia Shaw Judson |
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| Jennifer Dotson, Photographer |
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What The Day Calls For
By Lennart Lundh
What shall I play for you, to draw your
attention toward the thin, stiff young woman
at the fountain, the one you call Violinist?
The sky and the trees suggest something
pastoral, lulling. The wind in your hair is
warm but not uncomfortable. Certainly no
anthems or marches. Summer has no need for
discord or half-considered opinions. And
anyway, this is just as much a fiddle, so on
your feet, find a stranger or lover to face
while I sway and slide between reels and
jigs. What the day calls for is dancing.
| Music Fades
By Gail Denham
The bow slips
from her grasp and music
fades into darkening sky.
Slowly she lowers
the violin, holds it against
her chest as if to protect
her precious instrument
from that storm
that approaches. Her slim body
rocks back and forth in agony
from brutal winds
of ridicule and fear
pressing, pressing against
her face.
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| 12 – Music for a While by Richard Hunt |
Untethered
by Kerry Leaf
Are you the pony Lyle rode
Upon his boat at sea?
Were you once bound by carousels
Till music set you free?
Did you imagine you could fly
To Beethoven’s serenade?
Or was it jazz that kissed your lips
Like sax-spiked lemonade?
Do harps and stars dot all your dreams
Or do you forfeit sleep?
Is standing still a made-up pose
As you prefer to leap?
Do you see us as we see you
Or are your eyes closed tight
So all you taste and touch and feel
Is the music of the night?
| Sphere of Sound
By Lynn West
The calliope goes ‘round as I mingle with the heady guests on the garden lawn.
Angel Blue blossoms dance over a field of gentle vibrato
A feast of manna as music wafts and youthful rifts spin through my mind.
Inventions of artists trickle through my veins.
Tributaries of talent toss care to the wings of woodwinds and wind through forests of flutes.
Beethoven and Brahms bustle as shooting stars Ringo my realities.
Spinning faster, I feel the winds of Chicago push brass over my shores.
As an ocean of sound gives birth to a string of pearls
Cymbals pound and pulse toward a final finish…
As a single clarinet sighs and the ride is over.
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| 13 – Joan’s Bench by Richard Hunt |
Discovery
By Candace Kubinec
I found a small place,
a little nook to call my own
where I could find solitude -
escape from the industry of life.
A cozy spot to be alone,
withdraw from a moonstruck world.
I pretended to be happy there, but
when I found a listening friend to
share my sheltered niche,
I discovered peace.
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| Jennifer Dotson, Photographer |
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| 14 – Composition in Stainless Steel #18 by Gideon Graetz |
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| Jennifer Dotson, Photographer |
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| Infinite Balance
By Joseph Kuhn Carey
Balanced beautifully like a stork on one leg,
or a ballerina twirling round in a circle on tiptoe,
my metal gleams and shines softly, elegantly,
musically, I radiate truth, beauty, song
and endless algorithms throughout the universe,
but most of all I present and seek harmony,
the inner you beneath the surface,
the drop of water in a still pond,
creating and radiating outward from a stationary center,
a single pearl of rainwater on an early morning leaf
containing all the meaning of life, a prayer for those
who worship at the simple altars of nature,
which surround us all if only we take a moment to look
and see the infinite spark and wonder there before our eyes.
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| 15 – Merry-Go-Round by Robert Cook |
Push Me Pull You
By Jen Meyer
I push you go round
To show the wide world.
You pull me go round
To all that I’ve missed.
Tumbledown. Humbledown.
Sing out and laughter.
Tug o’ fun. Hug and run.
Hooray! Here we go.
Hurry past. Blurry fast.
Where did you turn to?
Spin once more, then no more.
Heading a new way
Going slow. Stop. Yes. No.
Sigh in the days end.
Merrily round the well-worn circle.
Merrily round alone. With you.
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| Jennifer Dotson, Photographer |
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| Jennifer Dotson, Photographer |
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| Wheeee!
By Judith Stern Friedman
Wheeee! Woooo!
Let go my strings
Let down my guard
Music, let me be free to be.
Up to the sky, down to the ground.
Suspended, swirling, swooping.
I am a feather afloat on a phrase.
I am the joy of the highest note.
Holding hands, circling, spinning.
Leaning, looking, letting go.
La-la-la-la...
I am a celebration of song.
Music, my mentor, my inner muse,
Rising, resounding, reverberating.
La-la-la-la…
I am a dance of innocence.
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| 16 – The Rope Dancer by Phyllis Kresnoff |
The Rope Dancer
By Lisa Vihos
Any moment could be a falling
and yet, on the arm of the wind
the rope dancer finds herself
between weight
and counterweight.
She curves, bends,
sways, places her feet
with the ease of morning dew.
Her umbrella, her ballast.
No longer made of bronze,
but rather silk or air,
with each step, she becomes
the place she plans to go.
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| Jennifer Dotson, Photographer |
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| 17 – Best Friends by Kenneth Houston Kraft |
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| Jennifer Dotson, Photographer |
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| Best Friends
By Marjorie Rissman
we are brothers
carved in greenen
twined together
twins from the womb
protect one another
watchful eyes scan
the lawn for owners
ready to take them
home at long last
ready to be our
friends forever
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Bird Song By Candace Kubinec
When evening tip-toes in
to calm the toil of day,
when light begins to dim and wind
becomes a gentle breath -
these are the moments birds whisper
songs to me. Filling my dreams
with the hope of their voices.
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| Jennifer Dotson, Photographer |
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| 19 – Abstract Chiseled Stone |
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| Gail Goepfert, Photographer |
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| Just Breathe
By Adrian McRobb
Breathe, inhale exhale
a lifetime rhythm
waves undulating
on bloodstreams sea
words are formed
riding on breath
ripples in time
just breathe…
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| 20 – Days In Goodness Spent by Sylvia Shaw Judson |
Days in Goodness Spent
By Kerry Leaf
She rises from the fountain’s spray
Head slightly cocked toward moon or sun,
Her dancer’s stance of graceful sway
As though the music’s just begun.
Her lips, her eyes, in deep repose
Defy mind readers’ skills to gauge,
Poised mindfully as though she knows
The heart of rhythms soon to rage.
She turns her ear, draws in the air,
To blend the hum of chords and words
While drawing people near to stare,
To hover like young hummingbirds.
She dreams of those she’ll always love,
Of poems that read like songs,
Of harmonies, of tunes above,
Of rights that grew from wrongs.
And as Lord Byron writes, she walks
In beauty like the night,
Her elegance like floral stalks
For e’er in mind and sight.
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| Kerry Leaf, Photographer |
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| 21 – Nebula by Neil Winfield |
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| Jennifer Dotson, Photographer |
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| Cosmic Mystery
By Daniel J. Fitzgerald
Hanging just outside
Hubble’s spyglass,
a mystery resides.
Was it the butler?
the maid?
or cutesy Aunt Sue?
Only the nebula knows.
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| 22 – Boy on a Swing by Mary Block |
Up High
By Gail Denham
The world dropped away as I swung higher.
The chains on the swing creaked protest, but
I didn’t notice. I was in flight.
Gone was the daily grind of biology and algebra.
I reveled in another place, while evening breezes
whipped my flyaway hair, cooled my face.
No one called me to empty the trash, load
the dishwasher, or clean my room. Up here,
I floated, imagined exploring other worlds.
Perhaps an alien ship would land in the playground.
A tiny creature would motion me to ride. Up above the clouds,
I’d settle in a seat near the window to watch below.
We’d hang motionless, miles above earth. I’d watch people,
like termites, scuttling in their everyday mundane duties,
while I sipped some green, bubbly drink that tickled my nose.
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| Jennifer Dotson, Photographer |
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| 23 – Black Goddess Forte by Todji Kurtzman |
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| Photo provided by Keyth Security |
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| Black Goddess Forte
By Martin Willitts Jr.
Billie Holiday knew how to make a scene,
but people tried to erase her.
You can’t remove a goddess
who left behind her blues song,
tangible and irrepressible with a spirit
owning its own magnificent flames.
You cannot stop the mockingbird
from repeating its messages.
You know this is true. You can hear it
whenever a woman brings her music
and the sun is ravished with
Good morning heartbreak.
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| 24 – Monument in Right Feet Major by Todji Kurtzman |
Pass the Helium
By Julie Isaacson
It wasn’t s’posed to work this way!!
You said I could have all the hits I needed
To be one colossal, perfectly proportioned GIANT!!
And half-way there,
You pulled the plug on me!?
I’m gruntin’ and groanin’,
Squeezin’ my abs
Drainin’ my core
Tryin’ with all my might
To get me all filled in
Filled up, standin’ tall
Just three more pumps should do it!
PLEASE HELP ME!!!
Or RELEASE me!
Can’t stay in no man’s land—no, can’t stay in this no man’s land!
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| Photo provided by Keyth Security |
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| 25 – Iris by John Henry Waddell |
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| Photo provided by Keyth Security |
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| Call Me Sassy
By Monica Cardestam
Damn right I’ve got that Dog’s attention
My statue’s body deserves reflection
A hint of something desirous
Blooming in my spot called “Iris”
But you can call me “Sassy”
Proudly nude looking brassy
Dancer’s arms in the air
Really? Humph, as if I care
See me thrust out my hip
I draw you in like a whip
Black Goddess wishes she were me
Well, that will never be
Ask permission to walk my way Right Feet
A sculpture garden on a dead end street
Statues posing on a canvas green
Just waiting to be seen
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Dogs
By Idella Pearl Edwards
If you have a dog, you’ll never be lonely.
They cheer you up when you’re sad.
They give you unconditional love,
Even when you’re mad.
It makes you feel so very special
To see that wagging tail.
When they greet you with a slobbery kiss,
It raises your spirits without fail.
Whether you cuddle together on the couch
Or take a walk to the pond,
The enjoyable time you spend together
Will enhance and strengthen your bond.
Dogs don’t care how successful you are.
You know that statement is true.
They don’t love you for what you can do,
They love you because you’re you!
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| Photo provided by Keyth Security |
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| 27 – Harnessing Hundertwasser by Chris Zonto |
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| Jennifer Dotson, Photographer |
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| Harnessing Friedensreich Hundertwasser
By Emma Alexandra
Jubilant mosaic
harnesses maverick Hundertwasser forms,
Hundred Waters.
Frame strong, contains Friedensreich,
Peaceful Realm.
Artist whose rebellion against straight lines
chooses conformity obedient only to nature’s curves.
Straight lines a conspiracy to squelch creativity.
Plumb lines unplumbed, wave defiantly
to sky, clouds dancing, sun giving way to moon.
Unbridled colors rule this realm,
like a minuet set to rock ’n roll rhythms.
As this mosaic, unharnessed, glass and color,
imagery waving sunlit hellos, ever changing.
Spirals and domes, top hat cheer.
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| 28 – Untitled Bronze, 8’ High by Oscar Leon |
Un-Embraceable You
By Donna Pucciani
Never one to deceive,
you square your shoulders for truth,
your body unmoved, opaque
but for flecks of light. A white sky
shines through the bars,
slats of wonder letting us
breathe through each other.
The scent of air, pavement, green
sanctifies your visage.
Hedges and windows
bestow a casual blessing,
the baptism of rain
lingering amid the footfalls of those
who never lift their heads
to notice you, stranger, as I do.
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| Jennifer Dotson, Photographer |
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| 29 – Butterfly Fountain by Jon Bollo & Casey Van Loon Hanbury |
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| John Adorjan Photographer |
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| Butterflies Rhumba
By Irfanulla Shariff
Early Summerfest
Thirsty butterflies rhumba
In the fountain hall
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| 30 – Leaves Stained Glass |
Woven
By Shilpa Bahadur
Woven together,
In the tapestry of Life,
Connected to other,
In the race to survive.
Woven together,
In varied hues,
With boundless nature,
Each life is infused.
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| Jennifer Dotson, Photographer |
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| Jennifer Dotson, Photographer |
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| Woods
By Joan McNerney
Sliding through arches
of birch…comes sunshine
yellow and warm as honey.
Leaves drop like butterflies
filling the floor of forest
with crunchy foliage.
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| 32 – Paradise Sidewalk Stained Glass by Ruti Modlin |
Another Dream with Meghan
By Joris Soeding
I haven’t seen you
since Birmingham
the pre-dawn blue
a parking lot
just one more minute
you have aged
hair has become longer, lighter
we’ve never been near palms
an afternoon like this
I miss you so much
I know I must wake
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| Jennifer Dotson, Photographer |
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| 33 – Forest Poetry By Chris Heisinger |
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| Jennifer Dotson, Photographer |
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| A Walk in the Woods
By Lakshmy Nair
shy shimmer stream gliding over
rocks small and big
dancing bells sing on silver sheet
gold dust leaves rocking in
the arms of autumn wind
lips whistle lullabies
cool crisp sun resting on
the wings of crimson glow
leaves flutter into the flow
braided waves traveling down
the stream, withered limbs and
sun coins follow
walk in the woods among
canopy of colors brings back
cheerful hues of my life
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| 34 – Ballena Vallarta by Octavio Gonzaléz |
Ballena Vallarta
By Cathy Bryant
Why not a whale
flying in a park?
Nature has shown us
that anything, even whales
becoming air ballerinas,
even joy and survival,
is possible, and happens
with the grandeur
of effort and laughter
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| John Adorjan Photographer |
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| 35 – Freedom’s Sacrifice by Julie Rotblatt-Amrany & Omri Amrany |
| Neath the Flag that Flies Half-Mast
By Sandra Phillips
A yearning set in granite black,
a hand outstretched to one who may never come back,
that they who lie in glorious eternal rest
shall be to we who remain a memory blest.
Their names engraved, though known to few
forever a light to the way that is narrow but true.
And when you see that wall along the road
your heart would break and tears may flow.
Then pray you there for the souls of the past
who sacrificed their all ‘neath the flag that flies half-mast.
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| 36 – Strutting Down Central by John Adduci |
Strutting
By William Vollrath
Strutting, trucking
Across the floor
Down the walk
Out past the door
Rain and wind and hail
Time and luck and fate
Suggest a path to follow
Beyond the shifting gates
Strength and firm conviction
Hopefulness and love
Oft-proven trusty guide posts
Graciously gifted from above
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| Jennifer Dotson, Photographer |
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| 37 – WWI Memorial by John Cady Ewell |
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| John Adorjan Photographer |
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| Memorial
By Carol L. Gloor
No one’s alive who fought in World War I.
Memory lives only in letters as yellow
as the maple leaves the November it ended,
only in grainy films of smiling farm boys
marching off to a war they did not understand,
to starving mud trenches, to slipping on blood,
to drowning in mustard gas.
So memorials are needed, monuments marching
across the land, monuments for soldiers
no one remembers anymore.
Does anyone stop here?
Does anyone remember a name?
What does 1917 or 1918 mean?
One hundred-two years ago:
the War to End all Wars.
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| 38 – Compassion Moves a World by Julie Rotblatt-Amrany |
Compassion Overcomes
By Maria Andrea Salas
Anguish.Found near and far,
here and there and everywhere.
An empty world filled with sufferings and misfortunes.
Broken dreams, broken spirits, broken hearts.
But what brings healing to this defeated world?
Compassion.
Compassion moves a world.
It does not fix or solve tragedies,
yet it overcomes a world beaten down
by disasters, cruelty, and hate.
A child's embrace from their mother,
a hug from a friend,
still moments in a rotating world.
Care towards one another is how we help each other.
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| John Adorjan Photographer |
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| 39 – Miss Nitro by Peter Voulkos |
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| John Adorjan Photographer |
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You Tube
By Susan Spaeth Cherry
This pipe
is your life sometimes
straightforward
as sunrise and sunset,
sometimes contorted
as a yoga pose.
Indifferent to rain
and snow and heat,
it sprawls on the lawn
of the past and future,
embracing Now
in its ebony arms.
| Entangled
By Janea D. Harris
I am far from ordinary,
Twisting and winding at every turn.
It truly is my curves that make me unique,
Just when you think I am headed on a linear path, I pivot.
Forcing your eyes to trace my tangled curls,
It is not your intention to become wrapped up in me.
My beauty is unlike any you have ever seen,
You look away, only to swiftly turn back.
My curves are captivating,
You cannot help but to become entangled.
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| 40 – The Forest King by Abbott Pattison |
| The Forest King
By Renee Butner
the essence of my power
reaches into the verdant green
snaking out like droplets of mercury
winding across a floor
pulse of heart, beat of blood
I am cognizant of each movement
surrounding me in this realm
broken wing, latest birth and hatchling
I see clouds scudding across a brilliant moon
nocturnals on their rounds
the pearlescent orb fades
as the golden sun begins to rise
I rule the day amidst snort and buzz
I nourish with yields from bush and soil
the restless steam passes near and I stand firm
surveying the depths of beauty over which I command
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| 41 – Antelope by John Kearney |
Running Antelope
By Eugene Gurevich
A graceful antelope
Fast as lightning
Running all day
Through endless
Savannah Runs for her life
To escape from the lions
Defending , protecting
With horns and with hooves
No end to the running
No stopping the chase
Speed and agility
Running is Life
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| John Adorjan Photographer |
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| 42 – Differentiation by Michael Brown |
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| John Adorjan Photographer |
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| Different Distinction
By Dorothy Bury Shaw
Seemingly separate,
distinct from each other,
opposing planes, shifting and falling,
static in motion. What is real?
A collision of truths,
a clash of opinions,
conflicting perspectives,
forceful forward, holding back. What is real?
The sacred calm, the secular call,
the cutting betrayal, the forgiving flame,
patterns in flux,
together alone, connected apart. What is real?
Staring into the golden mirror, I see you.
Looking at you, I see myself.
Your wounds are my wounds.
Our stories drift away, the slate is smooth. This is real.
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| 43 – Woven Steel by Ira Sapir |
Woman
By Herb Berman
Armless, headless woman,
woman of dream and desire—
womanly torso, tall gray
ghost of woman, why
do you walk about at
midnight, stalk my dreams?
Oh woman woven of
distress and doubt,
why do you insist I dream you
into my troubled life?
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| Jennifer Dotson, Photographer |
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| 44 – Life Lessons by George Lundeen |
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| Jennifer Dotson, Photographer |
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| Hush
By Candace Kubinec
I like the hush of twilight
when even birds are still
& exiled is sun’s gypsy light.
I like the hush of twilight
when day becomes contrite
& moon’s soft blush overspills.
I like the hush of twilight
when even birds are still.
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| 45 – Awakening by Maurice Blik |
Grief
By Jennifer Dotson
Grief consumes us, sucks our substance
and hollows us out until all that is left
are our losses – the deaths of parents,
mentors, spouses, lovers, friends,
and children.
We awaken in the days, weeks, months,
even years that follow, surprised that the
planet still spins, birds still chirp
and things go on - while we are husks
holding shards of memory.
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| John Adorjan Photographer |
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| 46 – Stone Chinese Peasant |
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| John Adorjan Photographer |
|
| a stone carved to resemble
By Miriam Sagan
a stone carved to resemble a person
bent with time, worn by water
tough surface, rough hewn
almost featureless
serene, or suffering, hard
to tell
maybe both
set still in the garden’s grass
the wind cannot ruffle
or disturb a serenity I imagine
much like mine
true but eroding
the details
of who I was
what I will become.
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| 47 – Steel Sculpture With Natural Rust Patina by Mark Wallis |
Morning Stretch
By Kathleen Gregg
she emerges
from her cocoon of covers
sleep heated shedding
a diaphanous skin
of dreams
she unfurls
her body arcs
backward arms wide as wings
blush spreading
like the rusty red sunrise
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| Jennifer Dotson, Photographer |
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| 48 – Semeuphoria Spin by Fred Nagelbach |
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| David Dotson, Photographer |
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| The Red Tricycle
By Lynn White
When he was very young
he was told that if he wished hard enough,
his wish would come true.
Later,
much too late,
he was told to be careful of his wishes,
that sometimes they came true
and were regretted.
He often thought back to the red tricycle,
to how he tried to ride it over too rough ground
and learned that even the most stable of things can topple
and result in calamity.
He no longer makes wishes now
he knows.
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| 49 – The Winged Hybrid by Richard Hunt |
Taking Flight
By Carol Spielman Lezak
Late afternoon, late October,
bracketed by the lake’s metronomic roar
that fills the stately stillness of Moraine Park
in its autumnal palette of hues –
blazing crimson and vermilion, golden ochres –
untouched by the lowering sun,
sits “Wingèd Hybrid” upon a small rise,
although it not so much sits as,
limbs outstretched and embracing the sky,
it fairly propels itself upward
perhaps on a migratory path,
taking flight as it competes
with a brilliant sun-sprayed landscape
at once deciduous, coniferous,
monumentally splendiferous.
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| John Adorjan Photographer |
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| 50 – Untitled (Lucca No. 4) by Manuel Neri |
| Questions for Manuel Neri
By Jennifer Dotson
Winged Victory’s condition
was an accident of time
with centuries passing
and not the artist’s choice.
So why deprive your marble
mermaid of her head and hands?
Did your model’s defiant
gestures and expression
conflict with the cool
composition you desired?
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2009 Fall
Muses' Gallery Archive
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