Flavia - A Sketch From the Past

This drawing was done by my friend Flavia in Taromino on Sicily in the early 1980's. She did this on a sketch pad sitting on the wall by the beach. Being a raven haired, dark eyed, young woman, to me she was the epitome of the artist, capturing the light while at the same time capturing my heart.

Flavia was just 17, you know what I mean? I was almost 10 years her senior,  so we weren't lovers or anything like that. We were just two people trying to talk in different languages, never really getting past looking into one another's eyes and the pages of the dictionary. And that was fine with me. Now, Platonic love can either break your heart or inspire a poem, a song, or just a memory. In this case I got lucky - I got the memory.

Her family was very courteous and nice to me, insisting that I eat with them while in port. This was their family vacation, a month which they spent at the beach after slaving away in Palmero all year. I was there for a week on the Mississinewa, an oil tanker of about 30, 000 tons displacement, and was their guest nightly at the hotel they were quartered in. I had become a friend of their daughter and that was reference enough for them.

Neither my lack of Italian, nor the limited English they possessed, kept the conversation from flowing with the wine over dinner. With the aid of the by now venerated dictionary, there was much to talk about. Through that we spoke of politics, the American President, my travels, the fathers work as a banker and Flavia's ambitions to become a successful commercial artist. Mama just smiled and indicated that I should eat more. I would bring some small gifts each night as a token of appreciation for their hospitality.

Flavia had never been to America, or NYC, and did the drawing from her head. She asked me if it was fairly accurate.  I told her it was perfect. And then, as if it were nothing at all she gave it to me.... and I still have it. From her head to my heart.... and I can still feel the warmth of the Sicilian sun and the breeze as we sat on the wall about 40 years ago....

Transitions

Art is like the wheel; revolving.
As with life; it's all evolving.
Too much trouble, trying to solve
the mysteries that surround me.

And if for a moment, stuck in time,
my views were yours, and your views mine,
would we still search for the signs
of who we were meant to be?

So, continue on and on, we must
repeat mistakes, shake off the dust.
Then get back up, before we rust
as ships sunk in the sea.

With all the things dividing us
It may be hard to focus,
but, try remembering what once was
the world we'd hoped to see....

The Memories Behind Me

I used to work right here.
Or at the plot table in the rear.
It was a feeling held so dear,
which I somehow still recall....

In the recesses of my mind,
there are places where you'll find-
the memories left behind,
are not that far at all...

Pictures in the Rain

Some painters use oil on canvas,
And then they rise to fame.
But I can't paint to save my ass,
So, I take pictures in the rain.....

Nature's Daughter

She's still there
When the birds come for water.
Standing tall and proud
I call her Natures Daughter...

Or.....

She's stood there for some years,
since the day when Sue first bought her.
And though she's never had a name before,
I call her Natures Daughter.

"Waiting" by me

She's waiting
on the pier - there
by the shore.

She's waiting,
like so many
times before.

And when the night falls
she'll hide her pain -
indoors.

But, tomorrow
she'll be back again
once more.

 Wondering,
"What the hell am
I here for?"

Unheard Thoughts

You’re all missing out on what goes on in my head
thoughts left unwritten are thoughts left unsaid.
There’s still so much stuff that I don’t understand,
I’d type it all out but it just hurts my hands.

I’m starting to see why the world never progresses.
Our wisdom comes late and winds up as “confessions.”
The Clerics who hear them are sworn not to share
these words of wisdom with others who care.

The “living” keep living going around and around,
never hearing the words of the wisdoms that bound
like an ocean of lightning- never really observed;
for the dead cannot talk or ever be heard.

And the wisdom we gather is something to share
with those who are living while we’re all still here.


May 4th, 2016
Home - River Oaks
Concord, NC