"Monologue of a Hibernating Frog"
sleet or snow?
feels good it soaks into.
my body wet.
snow or cold rain?
acanthus rooting above me gone bad for the cold?
or those withered leaves suffering heavy snow?
what's the faint sound coming on?
or a big truck?
like electric massage feels good.
never get hungry.
underground this may be hell.
I think hell is fine.
the dreams I dream always wrapped in a rose mist.
meanwhile spring arrives and. cool-like
into the dazzling light and air I creep up but.
that's what makes me smile with all my eyes.
From Shimpei Kusano - the Frog Poet of Japan,
by way of
Steve Waldron - the Northern Californian Frog and Beat Poet
black sunflower seeds
spread on the gallery floor
consumer jars stacked
with my studio window panes
and a small quadritic glass marker on top
rust patterns from the jar lids
that are no longer
One of my frogs who died
cast in bas-relief glass
view from the other side
with David Gibson's mysterious landscapes
in the background
below the small colonnade
the light pools brightly with soft edges
and here the rain falls
before the rain falls again
the young atherium needs
With the misting rain a small rivlet forms
and runs as far as it can
but never goes over the edge
the small collection jars below the sandblasted glass surface
show more clearly when the surface is wet
these small jars have housed preserved amphibians
at the American Museum of Natural History in New York
for most of the past 100 years
the images below were taken in my studio
while the "intermittent rain" began
I miss the old hoe
but in the open and sterile gallery space
it didn't sing
like in the studio
(as Harvey says)
223 North Shore