Category Archives: Landscape

See you later…?

SEE YOU LATER…?

There are those who faithfully check-out my latest posts of – poetry or paintings – Thanks.

It’s right to let you know – I’m taking a Post ‘Sabbatical’.

I think twelve posts at a time – are displayed on the page.

So when you click seedsinmotiontruthnart.wordpress.com
– that’s what you get.

At the bottom of the twelve posts you will see ‘older posts’ at the red button – if you would like to further explore past work.

Should I resume after the Sabbatical – I guess some will have rode into the sunset for good and the delay will send you to greener pastures, not to return. (That’s just how it goes…)

I queried one time if all our followers really are informed about our latest posts as claimed by wordpress – but no one could answer.

Meantime take care.
As my wife would say:
‘Tot Ziens’

walking everywhere
Walking Everywhere (m/media)
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Everyday Occurrence

EVERYDAY OCCURRENCE

It was to be
just
another
ordinary
walk in the woods
Raison d’etre – ?
health – re-invigoration

It was to be
just
another
full overcoat
jamboree
into the home of
the trees

It was to be
just
another
‘half-conscious’
observational
excursion into the
grassy undergrowth

It was for me
a daily occurrence
– as for she

Healthy walks
with the nature girl
and I
the townie guy

– country mouse
meets town mouse

thirty-six years later
morphing into
country-town
mice

and then home for tea

Life by Paintings Measured

LIFE BY
PAINTINGS MEASURED

Life and it’s years
Measured by reflection
Recorded by another art work
Through choices of introspection

Forgotten or remembered dates
– written or not recorded dates –
signed pieces of spent time
scribbled on front or back –

Many escaped the cameras cache

Thus opening the door of surmise –
When – where – how – what – ?
Not sure and can’t remember

Marks of my own making
have gone out there
as fully-formed relatives of
heart and mind

Gone out there

There – under the sun – elsewhere
under the skies and ceilings of
other homes
Lost they are –
No tag upon the ankle
– hanging on the wall
Gone from me their first love.

I’ve lost you – children of mine

Who could you possibly
mean more to – than I…?

Time ticked by
as I remember time ticking by

Whilst I studied you – changed you –
added to your import

As I filed you – sold you –
alas – oft with regret

Gave you – itemised you –
folded you – ironed you –
cut you – framed you – forgot you
or got you back.

Gave you to – unworthy foster parents
who put you somewhere –
closed off out of sight in
chest or attic

Years gone by –
measured in spatters – washes
– and dry-brushed patterns all amok

Time recorded in
frantic marks – that scurried across
one hundred and forty pounds cold-pressed

Some stood/stand the test of time –
others – disqualified by those in a
daze of incomprehension

“I don’t know much about art…”
was the rubber stamp at the
custom’s gate of their minds

Still – can’t complain –
‘cause some will not let you go
a pillar of time you represent in
associated thought:

“My husband loved that painting of yours
I still have it – wouldn’t part with it”

Time – years – paintings gone
Out of sight – owned by others
– never to return

Many of them have worn well
Others heard man’s benediction
spoken over them:
“Time for a change –
remove her from the wall…”

What possible worth
can be found in these –
the inanimate?

And yet – thought is
art engrafted-on-paper
and thought is Still Life
revealing – there is still life

Inanimate perhaps
but what stories they tell –

Vincent did well know
His paintings oft rejected –
before he had to go

No artist can measure his years
except by Retrospectives

He alone was at the secret birth
of images coming out
delivered to the picture plane

Years measured by paintings
All unique –
Dark and sombre or all aglow

Years measured by paintings
This will have to do
to document a life

On these – man places worth
If enough will say – it should be so

Years measured by paintings
A raft of scattered years
Recorded in line and colour
and form and tone by what appears

I wonder at them all
Categorised with equality
If rejected by the Salon
It doesn’t matter to me

Years measured by paintings
I have quite a few
still wanting to leave home
to make their way to you