Low horizon big sky
above gold leaf skin
orange and peach contend with blue
and make dog shapes of sunset
forcing us to reimagine the horizon
as a ribbon of gold.
The attempted larceny of twilight
somewhere above a sutra of gold.
I want to eat this light, chew it
spit it into a rain made of fire
and prayer. Lost love is only
the world turned upside down
breathe blue flame & remember the pact
you made before your last birth.
Cubes of sky
over molten hills
was dreaming of
the mingling of hues among the folds
reminding her of ships
or a reassessment of September.
October is a fugue
made of dying
leaves and the music of their rustle
a continuous rapture of change.
just one more wax-shaped teardrop.
The allure of turquoise the rapture of red
a malleable landscape revealed.
After the September rain
the air is charged with odors
of impending storms upended
like a shepherd’s intention, or
the bleating of sheep.
The unseen rocky canyons
where intelligence dwells
in minerals and rills
and unconsciousness lurks like a cougar
w/ an urgent summer hunger
sharpening the senses.
In the light we have the promise of shadows
or one more lifetime in which a stolen moment
reappears in the roar of a silent hue.
A collaboration of John Olson, Roberta Olson & Paul Nelson, 6:05P – 9.12.05
Hues in mutual conflict. Can one
call this conflict? Is conflict
conflict when the hues are so gentle
allowed to combine, invited into
this world, allowed, encouraged
to have a life of their own, as
if the very reality, the very essence
of a sky at twilight were brought
into wax, trapped in wax. But
is it trapped? It is not static.
There is a life in the peach, a
vividness in the warmth of this
creamy orange that eludes the
finality of my searching rhetoric.
What words can assume the palpability of paint, can acquire
the sensuality of wax combined
in heated pan to exude this
other life, this fugitive world
that is neither sky nor art
but a reality unique to itself.
This blue is a September
Monday fear the hurricane
& the message behind it
blue. Touch of indigo under
shapes the chldren reveal
as dragons or the coming
of another dusk. Over the
gulf, no one is sure where
the sky ends & the whitecaps
begin. No one is sure if
there is a hand shaping
these events or if it’s
simply spilled from a dipper
constellated by an ancient
wall of surprising stars.
the sun chases clouds across the sky
while the land below lies cracked in its creation
there is no rain very little shadow
the clouds make moons of themselves
reflecting the suns bent rays
there are dogs that run in air
or continents culled from a
feeling of warmth the darkness
will drip and comb the clouds into
memories of light a night