She's A Climbin'

I received an email today from my wife about an expedition that my youngest daughter went on this weekend. My wife had gone into our study with our older daughter, but, when realizing that Little A wasn't crawling along behind them, went in search of her. She was found, in all her glory as a fifteen month old baby, sitting atop our piano. Since she's getting more comfortable with standing and walking around tables while holding on, I guess she'd figure that learning how to climb would be more entertaining than learning to walk on her own. She'll get that soon too, I'm convinced, because of her method of getting up.

She went from the ground, to the piano bench, to the keys, and then to the very top of the piano. Up, up and away, my little angel climbs. Now, much like a cat, I have a feeling that once she got up there, coming down would have been disastrous. Like most things with little kids, things can be funny and cute when nobody ends up hurt. As a relatively new parent, who's yet to see one of his kids grow up so that the end results of parenthood can be determined, I still try to figure what all of these little accomplishments mean. For now, I'll just assume she'll scale the mountains of Mars one day.

Electro-Static Night Sweats

Electro-Static Night Sweats

In the still quiet breeze of the night
walking along the riverside,
wet rustle splashing,
black and white sine waves come my way
in electrostatic frequencies that equal
inequality and sound holy, all holy.
fury and calm and I am
reflecting the surface, reflecting me:
a torrent of static, overheard conversations
in my head in a cafe on a Saturday
when the lights are dim and red.

Glowing globes of phosphors
swirling above and the dancing of commerce below
brings me to leap of faith I can't make
(protestations from a former protestant
who's given up the ghost to find the monkey
bones buried in the dirt, an African mother,
my African mother, the origin of our species):
Absolam, Absolam, what smoldering cities we make with greed!

And what will it make of me?
Silver pieces bought Jesus’ body-
What price then for the soul?
I am clanging and empty as a tin drum
rattling inside, a hollow tune:
How can you accuse me of your guilty pleasures?

Art McLean
Michael J. Dingler
January 2005

A Strong Subtle Sound

A strong subtle sound,

Like that of a brush whipping

A canvas ‘long around midnight

On a quiet night,

When stillness is still growing

And the paint is flying

To and fro, back and forth,

In soft little explosions of color,

Is a night such as tonight,

Where solitude is painted in hues

Of green and gold; a happy sprite

Hiding in a corner and a fairy princess

Riding dragonfly wings singing

out a song of sweet vidalia purple.

-18 January 05

A Quiet Night Goodbye

I lived a quiet night goodbye,

wrestled on the floor painting

grout lines with my finger tips

while you slept with the blue

light crawling through the window

your skin cool with color.



By morning you were gone

like the last silk fabrics slipping

through seamstress hands,

your motion like wind through the bedroom,

then the sad sound of the front door closing.

I imagined you moving

across the yard with an armful

of books, stepping with your tiptoes,

dew laying peaceful on moist morning grass.



-A collaboration with Katie Bowler (www.katiebowler.com)

While I Sit Idly By Painting

I've taken up oil painting to help me purge my idle time of too much thinking. There is something more to it than I anticipated. The main thing I didn't anticipate was the amount of time that I'd have to wait before progressing to the next step of a painting. I'll have to admit that there have been a couple of learning margins, but for the most part, I'm diggin' it so far.

I started out a helluva long time ago with acrylics, which is easier if you're wanting things to dry quickly. It's easier in a lot of ways compared to oil. The colors with oil, however, are richer. Plus, there's a smell to the paint drying on the canvas that makes it a lot more...well, a lot more something.

The best part of it all is learning something new. Sitting down and figuring out a method to the madness and then applying it. I need to learn more about the process of painting and layering and colors and all sorts of crap, but that'll come in time. In the meantime, however, I will enjoy my amateur status.

This is the end of today's pointless insight.

On the Night of the Twelfth

Meteors fall in green sky-rocket blazes
against the star speckled night-
the moon a dark orb peeking
east like a child pretending
to go to bed

Small ripples in the sea
clash against the metal of the hull
making click-clocked sounds reverberate
in harmony with the slow creaking
of the lines pulling tight
around the bit

A crisp breeze blows just enough
to mandate sleeves and keep
fog from settling in on still
chill waters, a hair dampening
deep fear-seated fright of a night
that leaves men blind
who scare easy

Distant clouds dot the horizon
in greyish purple puffs
radiated orange on the underbelly
by the scowl of urban street
lights growling heavenward
to pollute the evening with
a grimace of modernity

A thousand artificial constellations
dot the horizon, each a minotaur
of industry, a god of oil,
pumping proud and illustrious
in underground tubes the blood
of mechanized life

Flash rain falling orbital,
streaking hot and dripping fire
in moving pleasure fantasy,
a few seconds shining bright
then quietly fading away

Fear Not the Dragon

And I fear not the dragon,

fire-breathing hush whispers

smoldering warm 'neath the stars,

apollonian in a hearth and a moon

Ashen drift to twilight's bosom;

wayward go the heavens

yet still are we,

amongst the vastness,

clinging, fighting with swords

raised high, to a cause that goes

unheard, a clamorous sound of metal

hitting metal hitting metal

Demon cries in a daylight

charge across the chasm,

to an unknown fate we ride

with withering faith

in battlefields of woe,

rivers red with tears,

mothers waving arms

hysteric in their wails

The flower of youth impaled,

the blood of heroes and cowards

runs through the fields

of springtime bloom

The sun shining bright

after a good rain,

the tears for the departed

drying and moving on

~MJ Dingler & A. McLean, Dec 2004