POINT LOBOS MEADOW

Pastel On Paper by UT1

Pastel On Paper by UT1
He is above all,
yet, He—the second Person
of the Trinity—in the fullness of time
became low—as animals looked on—born in a barn.
What mere mortal man could have dreamed up such a scene?
Wholly God, wholly man
Holy God, a Holy Man—
God is above all,
and being above all,
above all,
does not—would not—
force Himself or His plan
on mortal man. Indeed,
God is a gentleman.
Therefore, when I tell the Christmas story
of God—so willingly shedding His glory
for a while—exchanging home and throne
for a manger and a cross: for God so loved the world—
I do so in the same Spirit
not as prosecutor, not as proselytizer
but more as Paul—
who as Saul
had once persecuted the Christians,
who as Saul had once seen the blinding light in the desert—
not as judge and jury,
not as cross examiner or crucifier,
not even defense attorney
but as Paul singing from prison
and Silas—
praying for his persecutors and as such saying
God is a gentleman.
© December 15, 2010 by UT2

Charcoal On Paper by UT1
1
What is poetry?
The skunk curled up in the feed bucket?
Or you as you unwittingly carry it down
from 6 to 9,
set the bucket on the flat of the flatbed?
You watch it scurry, a bit shocked,
that is, the skunk.
2
We have just gotten back with a load of sawdust from Maywood Furniture Factory on Bulb Ave.
Or was that Thompson?
The dust would be covered over all our clothes.
At home
my dad would take a broom and sweep me off.
We breathe in lots of fine dust-
fine indeed–
as well as ammonia.
One day my draft notice comes, one day
I guess as it should have been:
it was fine.
I trade my shovel for a rifle.
© October 9, 2013 by UT2

Acrylic On Masonite by UT1
O, slow,
I am sheep in fog.
Dolorous,
I see through a glass
darkly; nevertheless,
I
know who my shepherd is.
© May 15, 2013 by UT2

Pencil On Sketch Paper by UT1
A white egret
Is juxtaposed against the moon.
If not for its dark silhouette,
You would have missed it,
The white on white,
Bone on bone—
The way the scene was lit.
T.S. took a back seat
And so did Whitman.
The miracle of meter
No longer mattered or so it seemed;
It all flowed together
So seamlessly,
O, in such symmetry
And endlessly,
Or so it seemed.
This whole universe stood still,
Stands still,
As in a tableau. Yet
The egret
Flew;
The egret;
Black silhouette;
Death;
Unseen, save by the light of the moon.
And Wyeth,
N.C., came, and comes to mind.
And so did Sassoon.
And I thought of Monet. And Rilke:
Poets, painters, “poet-painters,”
All of the same ilk,
All, breathing from the same turgid tube;
Not pretentious, not dull from storm,
But solemn—
Somewhere where Plath and Keats
Met,
Meet,
Somewhere where the sea and the path forget.
This is no longer dry land.
Flies the egret.
© May 15, 2013 by UT2