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The Joy of the Process

I follow the grain of the wood with the handle of my mom's old scraper in my right hand, while controlling the pressure and flow of the blade with the fingers of my left. I get a warm feeling between my shoulders and neck as the rhythm of the wood is revealed. This is when the stories begin. Together they are my calming rhythm.

Recent Works

CANT-FENCE-ME-IN-FEATURED-IMAGE

Hanging Art


Anew

AWAKEN

I love wood.

Roots just “do”. 

They don’t complain. 

They don’t ask why.

Roots see not sun nor birds.

If they can’t go through, they go around.

They grip into the earth, they are the foundation.

Roots supply the tree with food and drink.

The trunk sways in the wind, but continues to reach toward the sky.

The trunk carries the branches that take in sun and rain.

The branches bend with the weight of snow and heavy winds.

They too spring back and feed the tree with life.

Wood is the structure of trees.

I love wood.

 


 

Second Hand Smoke

melding smoke

waning steel

wrapping the stage

holding time

 


Subtle


 Internal Flame


Waterstill Mountainsigh

 

water still mountains high

waters till mountain sigh


Fire Dancing with the Wind of “88”

pulse of the fire

rocked ‘n waltzed

in a blazing gale


Glows Now Silent

stains immune from fires past

remain sheltered in the grain


‘you’ Can’t Fence Me In

My Choice Alone