how we look affects what we see
Goals
To critically assess …
- Whether we can ever recapture what was
- The extent to which medium matters to the message
- Metaphor as a means of two messages in one expression
- How we regard others like us or regard our differences
- The extent to which words do rather than merely say
- Whether we use our tools or our tools use us
Hideous Width
For lack of brush to paint it with,
I’d deal with that hideous width.
Trace a square or splash a circle.
Something focal and likely purple.
Long haunting shadows hem me in,
living beside this rustic lemon.
Wooden floors and faded colour
harken back to distant summers.
My darling auntie, what of beige?
A neutral colour that’s all the rage.
Or subtle shade yet more familiar,
like your soft hair of brilliant silver.
The dour widow peered out a window
toward the mottled orange garage.
Not beige my dear, we’re not a dunce.
Listen closely, I’ll whisper once.
Yes, that garage is slightly reddish.
But what I’d most hope to replenish
is its lure of dance and music.
Even that thought is therapeutic.
There hung a ball of shiny prisms
swaying with our gentle rhythm.
Me and all the town folk women,
garbed in cotton or finest linen.
Those days before this greasy filth
became a park of barn-size width.
A park for cars! That title’s false.
The yellow hall of rock and waltz.
What do you Think?
- Can we repair that which is — in order to to return to that which was?
- The verse contains a number of words challenging to rhyme. Does that add anything or is it just shiny?
In the Scene
An engine on two wheels feels heavy
when hefted or held between denim knees,
but glides with ease and rides steady
when the throttle slips a tease of speed.
Bigger the bore, more the torque,
and faster the vector flows.
Yet the size of wheel between the fork
isn’t always measure of the road one goes.
Off-road, on-tour or blurring the trees.
Living the moment, being in the scene.
What do you Think?
- Is the verse about motorcycles or sex?
- Some bikers call auto drivers “cagers” or “spectators.” Is that disparaging? Bikers wave to one another when passing on the open road. Why them and not other drivers
Blocks
I have a box of alphabet blocks.
Have had them since I was three.
Each block is wooden and lovingly worn.
Solid oak, so the box hefts heavy.
Two dozen and two might seem few,
but I assure you that many is plenty.
Faded in colour, smooth in texture.
The corners blunted, soft from wear.
Animals shapes start with the letter.
Another side shows a circle or numeral.
Some have squiggles, curious symbols
with which I’m still not familiar.
Even back then it was easy for me
to spell what every kid knows.
Like LAZY and QUIET and L E PHANT.
And NO put crossword to FOE.
Words I twist into sounds that reach.
I show him the times he would listen.
Two of us playing with alphabet blocks.
Treading gently, to HUSH the BEAST.
Mom says he fights a nasty inside.
It takes hold when cold and tired.
But how could that be, he rests all day.
At home hasn’t TIME for MOM, or me.
Something I saw in my old oak blocks.
Now in everything, like mass or being.
The power of words to transform,
or that’s how the blocks have me thinking.