Monday, July 27, 2020

POETS WHO SLEEP #9 ~




P O E T S     W H O     S L E E P

______________________


                                                     drawn & scribed by Bob Arnold















all drawings
copyright


Sunday, July 26, 2020

PLAY ON PETER GREEN ~









1946 ~ 2020








______________________________________













NOW ~






Back Road Chalkies
July 2020


Bob & Susan Arnold





Wednesday, July 22, 2020

Tuesday, July 21, 2020

Monday, July 20, 2020

POETS WHO SLEEP #8 ~





P O E T S     W H O     S L E E P

______________________


                                                     drawn & scribed by Bob Arnold















all drawings
copyright

Sunday, July 19, 2020

Saturday, July 18, 2020

ALAN CASLINE ~









Where White Goose Goes


white goose, white goose

fly away home

John found white feathers

up creek

the farmer not home



white goose, white goose

swim for your nest

John found white feathers

down creek

beseeched the preacher

to bless



white goose, white goose

walk the road to the right

John found bloody feathers

evidentially a fight



white goose, white goose

take the left turning path

away from fox's footprints

and the hungry hunter's wrath



white goose, white goose

stay where you are

food, shelter, and friends

though some may find

the company bizarre


January 5, 2009
Voorheesvlle, New York




_______________________

Alan Casline
Summergreen
FootHills Publishing
2019










Thursday, July 16, 2020

POETRY IS ~




      Poetry is the shortest distance 
            between two humans.


              — Lawrence Ferlinghetti
               Poetry As Insurgent Art



Wednesday, July 15, 2020

BORN WITH ~








Born With





My painting will have no surface.

You will enter it by light.

But the sheet of color seems still

the moment refracted sun

twirls cloud mass and the petals,

dapple accidents on crabapples'

wet black trunks. Light enters, richly,

cow-green fields a lake rises to meet.

There's no distance, sundown finches

wash our street in the song of rain.

In the shades there's no tomorrow

but we let it fall on us uncreated.

I have had a canvas but never a brush.



_________________

MICHAEL DALY
BORN WITH
DOS MADRES PRESS
2020