Through the tangled undergrowth and damp earth,basket hooked on my forearm, I edge into the moss.Caps—amber, honey-laced, and bell-white—peek through leaf-sheen,each a coin half-buried in the forest’s palms. I step slow, nails tasting soil, watching for a tell:a curl of snail-silver, the pale dust of spores, a stem bruised blue.Poison hides in mimicry—painted red, a … Continue reading Revisionist Poetry – Fungal Bounty, v.2
Revisionist Poetry – Blowing Away, v.3
The dandelion keeps time with the wind —a bright clock with its hands undone,a paper moon that peels itself apart:each seed a tiny bell, a hush that falls. They lift like hushes in a narrow sky,parachutes stitched of down and air,spinning away from the hollowed crownto write new margins on the field below. What remains … Continue reading Revisionist Poetry – Blowing Away, v.3
Revisionist Poetry – Avian Essence, v.3. (a lyrical reimagining)
Dried pods cradle the late light,milkweed moons pinned to brittle twigs,paper lungs folded against the throatof a sky that holds its breath. Morning comes in a hush of wings —or perhaps it comes as patience breaking,a single seam unzipping: crack,the soft percussion of seed and silk. Then a small weather rises, a tremorof white, a … Continue reading Revisionist Poetry – Avian Essence, v.3. (a lyrical reimagining)
Revisionist Poetry – Blowing Away, v.2
The dandelion — a yellow clock wound down,a pale globe drifting on the wind.Its seeds, small hushes with parachutes,spin off on invisible ropes. The bloom has emptied; gold loosened into air,a lace of stems in autumn’s thin light.Yet in that unbuttoning it plants insistence —a promise of soft landings, of green. We watch the white … Continue reading Revisionist Poetry – Blowing Away, v.2
Revisionist Poetry – Avian Essence, v.2
Dried milkweed hangheavy on brittle branches,pods held like closed handsagainst a hush of sky. Then a seam gives — papery crack,a scatter: white skeins lift,not birds yet, but small weather,each seed a flake of wing. The twigs empty their maps;air fills with soft insistence.What looked like husk becomes migration,a sudden translation of the ordinary. Leave … Continue reading Revisionist Poetry – Avian Essence, v.2
Revisionist Poetry – Autumn’s Fruit, v.4 (ekphrastic reworking for painters)
The frame holds a tipped crate,its lip offering up colour —ochre, rust, lichen-green —a spill arranged by gravity, not grace. Each gourd is rendered patiently:thick ribs catching light,warted skins stippled like dry brushpressed into stubborn canvas. Shadow pools beneath them,cool blues cupping warm bellies,edges softened where the eye rests too long,sharpened where a knife of … Continue reading Revisionist Poetry – Autumn’s Fruit, v.4 (ekphrastic reworking for painters)
Revisionist Poetry – Autumn’s Fruit, v.3
Crate overturned. Gourds tumble—humped, hollow, stubborn as small planets.Colors bruise—pumpkin, pewter, lime—skins pocked like weathered faces. Sun and rain carved them. Hands did not.They rattle when nudged, sound like loose teeth.Cold breath comes through the field; leaves scatter. I cup one: its skin is dry, warm where the day held it.No sermons. Just the taste … Continue reading Revisionist Poetry – Autumn’s Fruit, v.3
Revisionist Poetry – Autumn’s Fruit, v.2
In late harvest light, a wooden crate tips—a river of nobbled gourds pooling on straw:squat globes, long-necked lanterns, sun-browned mapsmottled with ochre, chartreuse, and bruise. Each one a small, knotted country — scoredby sun and rain, ribbed with winter’s memory,its pockmarks and scars the kind of languagethat names droughts and late frosts without a shout. … Continue reading Revisionist Poetry – Autumn’s Fruit, v.2
Revisionist Poetry – Art is Everywhere, v.3
In the cluttered hush of the studiothe inventory of things begins to list itself:a cracked crate, a sagging shelf, a rolled canvasbreathing like folded skin in the corner. A canvas draped over a chair, a clay hand in a jar,colours spattered down the floorboards like small suns.Each piece carries the humidity of a night—the tremor … Continue reading Revisionist Poetry – Art is Everywhere, v.3
Revisionist Poetry. – Art is Everywhere, v.2
In the cluttered hush of my studioa sheet of canvas breathes like folded skin.Turpentine fogs the window; a plaster handleans against a crate stamped LAST SUMMER. One painting is a bruise of ultramarine—another, a grin of ochre stuck on burlap.I price them in small currencies: time, regret, glue.Sell one and the throat hollows; keep all … Continue reading Revisionist Poetry. – Art is Everywhere, v.2
The New Renaissance Mindset 