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
empty into
breathe blue flame & remember
the pact
you made before your last
birth.
Cubes
of sky
over molten hills
she
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.
John
Olson
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.
Paul
Nelson
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
Roberta
Olson