Portland Street Art

In Search of Lost Time

Powell's sketch

4x5

BANKSY IN PORTLAND and great street art

Do these look familiar?

summer's frost

portland 2016

This morning I saw death waiting for me by the side of the road,

like a summer's frost, it came to me as a lone figure in dark grey behind the church. 

As if I could divert it, I began gathering all the beauty that I could and I called in a thousand singing voices

sending them to God. 

and slowly softly through the sounds I began to gather springs first blooms in pale shades of baby breath.

wiping tears from my eyes, I then gathered bold earthy smells from the forest new growth and threw them out to the winds.

I reached out with my arms like a blind person to gather the touch of the suns rays on my cheeks, the warmth overwhelmed me.

Knowing this could be fleeting, I wanted to paint one last picture 

to capture it all.

There was something seductive about all of this activity and I started to dance. I wanted to paint with my toes, leaving imprints in the dirt.  

Then suddenly, just as quickly as the figure moved into my view,

it was gone and I was still here. and even more 'here' than before.

It was nurturing and humbling to gather beauty and I wondered why I had not done it before.

mark twain

Stella

2015 

10" x 12"

Graphite on paper

Notes on cancer survivor awareness:

"It's not the size of the dog in the fight. It's the size of the fight in the dog."

mark twain

HANDMADE

There was something old as time that called me to the thread,

spinning memories with each pass across colors both alive and dead.

Things long forgotten rose up and sat lightly on my mind,

while friends and foes danced at my side.

I was connected, as if someone was thinking of me.

talking to no one, invisible air waves, devoid of time I passed messages.

were there older lives that I had lived but could not recall?

rich in thoughts, a peacefulness slowly set in beside me,

just as the sun shed it's crimson violet light behind me.

What great adventures I must have traveled in those times,

famous places, great spaces unique to mankind.

remnants of them sometimes drifted through my mind.

now I know I have lived at least nine lives.

who would you be if you could live again?

Picasso, Cleopatra, or Valentino, a romantic hero

I think I will choose something completely new,

maybe Vivaldi so I could live musically,

boldly painting the beauty of the world with sound.

In this way my life is handmade,

each day I start, gathering all of my old lives, 

again and again reconfiguring

into something new. 

 

Good to be Alive

It is good to be alive

Sometimes I can feel the trees grow,

Have you felt it?

I can feel the moon glow in shades of iridescence,

My puppies impatience as she banters with me,

A friend’s pain one thousand miles away…

Some days feel like years in one.

This is how one can be sad, happy, contemplative, content and mad,

Within twenty four hours. 

Ah! so this is how we stretch our lives,

by stretching ourselves, 

wrapping our minds around others and the world.

Early early in the morning before the city is awake,

as I am outside with the dogs,

The air is cool,

As the sun is rising, I sense a million colors shifting through the air,

As the golden light slowly filters in.

It is spectacular. Yet,

There is an uncommon silence while all are sleeping.

I smell the dew and woodiness of the moist air amongst the huge old oak trees,

It seems that I woke the frogs in the distance near the stream. 

I feel the world arise anew.

A gentle light spreads across the drive,

and I feel, it is good to be alive.

by Leslie Rosenberg