A Great Artist

A great artist is someone who balances at the end of a diving board over an empty pool
and does not jump
or back down.

At first the people will think him a lunatic and yell,
“wait, don’t jump, there’s no water in the pool!”
And “Get down from there you imbecile.”

But the artist stands stoic,
bouncing a bit in the wind,
and waits.

Sooner or later people will begin to fill the pool
drop
by
drop.

An old lady will come muttering
with a watering can.
Children will fill pails
spilling most along the way.
A woman clicking by in high heels
will pour out her evian bottle.
A gardener will stretch his hose
far from his thirsty roses and ferns.
Still
the artist will wait.

Boys and girls will splash in the summer heat.
People will begin to smile
and old men will exclaim,
“this will be an excellent pool for swimming.”
Everyone will gather, and the mayor will declare,
“We will fill this pool so the people of our town can swim.”
And they will congratulate the mayor for being good.
But still
the artist will wait.

A few may remember
and say, “the artist made us fill this pool,”
“he is a genius.”
But most will applaud themselves,
stating with the utmost conviction,
“I was one of the first to add water to this pool.
I drove twenty gallons, twenty miles in my truck.”
And
“I had water dropped from a helicopter
flying at one hundred feet.
Quite a marvelous feat.”

And when the pool is full and the first sweaty children
file up before the ladder to the diving board,
Most will call out,
“Move it old man so my son can do a back pectral spin off the high dive,” or something of that nature.
But some will stop and watch, a hush will spread over the crowd and they will wait
for the artist to finally do his work.

But it does not matter if the artist does the most graceful swan dive
or lands a belly flop.
Of course the people will be disappointed.
They will moan, “he spent all that time up there to cannon ball off and get us wet!?”

But the artist will know
and will be satisfied.
It may have taken many years through cold and heat,
maybe even centuries.
But the artist achieved his goal
even if no one,
not even he
(in his senility)
remembers.

Peak

A pigeon and a sparrow
Sit on the peak of the roof
Nodding and waiting
For me to glance
Out my window
Just to show
The space these two
Share.

New Skin

The big bang did not happen
It is still happening.
The cosmos expand
Between our fingers.
It is not a phenomenon
Relegated to the depths of space,
But one that occurs in perception
Imperceptible leaps
Or quantum jumps
That rip the fabric of space-time
Before it seals up again
Growing into it's new skin.

I wonder what I'm doing here
Besides waiting.
Like being on leave,
And the front line can't
Be found on any map.
I am writing this
Because I am here.
For no reason more
Than to procrastinate.
Because that is my job.
If anyone reads this
He or she may say:
"I am here,
And he was there."
It could be a point
To measure existence from.
The success of an inaudible
Desire,
Implanted centuries ago.
Lost sight of over
Time.
Maybe this is that
Desire,
Unfolding
With every word,
As painful as they are.

This is a Beginning

The darkest corners
Get pushed further away
As the room grows bigger,
Yet they are still there,
And they are growing as well.
Is there is blood on the hand
Which will not exhume the corpse
To find the answers,
For fear the murderer is yourself?
There are reasons why we are taught
Not to ask these questions.
It is not because the questions are unanswerable
But because the truth is too horrific to reveal.
So I ask you
"Should we coast through the program with what we were given,
Without asking how it was obtained?"
Or should we pass down the question
To our children.
This dire inheritance
Growing with each generation.

the Path

Beyond all knowledge of truth,
Is the inquiring mind,
Which knows all knowledge
Comes from only this.

A path may lead to a hidden grove within the wood,
But the traveler has learned nothing
Unless he has considered the path
And the woods surrounding.

In the grove he can contemplate the wood
And the path he has taken.
But to talk of only the grove
Is to wreck the path
And invite none to follow.

Mimicry

We are all mirrors,
So the cosmos
can see itself
Moving,
Like the wind,
It's purpose
To compel
The dancer.
What else is this undulation
Of the self?
We are here to tend this beast,
To communicate,
To connect,
To hold this
All together.