Barry McCarthy: Paint and Poetry

Periodically, the Burlington Art Council invites local poets to write about the works of a featured artist. Then, at a reception for the artist, the poets read their work aloud. Generally, much to the delight of the artist. The three entries below are poems I wrote on the artwork of Barry McCarthy. I have referenced a website selling his work under my fave links.
About his work, The Cot. I related strongly to this piece, because my grandfather slept on such a cot in his basement, and I imagined as the occupant in the study.

Pink House

Call the children home.
Come here, come here!
Set the tables, ride the rocking chairs!
We’ll drink lemonade,
Eat sugar cookies,
Play ring-around-the-rosy
Until we fall down.
Dizzy dandelions
Butter our chins.
Watch the painted ponies win.
Could we begin again?
Aged roof sags with a sigh.

The Cot

Grandpa’s view
Made his poor cot a paradise,
His mouldy room a palace.
Fresh salt of the sea,
Wave murmurs of the womb.
One day he returned.

Museum Monument

Yearning
for release.
Open sky beckons,
Hot sun surrounds.
One tug, one thrust,
Then, discharge,
Burst into flight.
Liberation.

The Season

December dark,
Broken by
Electric Candlelight.
Snow and ice,
Melted by
Warmth of gas fires.
Fear and longing,
Displaced by
Gifts, food, & presents.
Stress and busyness
Halted in their tracks
By family and song.
Barren trees outside,
Draped trees inside.
The gloom dispelled by
Ultimate love,
Forever love,
God’s love.

UCW Limerick - a group effort

Some light refreshment for a grey November day:

There once was a place named Five Oaks
That was filled with laughter and jokes.
Elizabeth was there,
With her clashing red hair,
While Cathy Eves danced for the folks.
The bats came to view
The hats on review;
Pink, red, and black
To mention a few.
Several stories were told
Of the brave and the bold
As we partied to ward off the cold.

Labyrinth Prayer

I look to the South, oh God, and feel the light and warmth of your healing sprit.
I look to the East, oh God, and feel your dawning inspiration, your joyful creation.
I look to the West, oh God, feel your exultant companionship, and wish to dance.
I look to the North, oh God, feel your gentle comfort, and peacefully take my rest.
I stand in the centre, ground myself in your spirit, and feel you take root in mine.

Ghost Bride

She glides down the aisle,
Her delicate feet seeming to float above
The red carpet.
Her satin-gloved hands
Clasp ethereal flowers,
Glowing in their whiteness.
She reaches her intended,
Turns to face him;
He smiles.
His fingers drift to her veil.
Slowly he lifts it,
Barley able to wait
To catch a glimpse
Of her lovely face.
Her beauty revealed at last,
He faints dead away,
Joining his wife in eternity.
Her skeletal grin mocks the assembled.

Dog Weather

I know a dog named Monte,
Who I take every day to Bronte
Provincial Park,
But not in the dark.
He likes to go for a walk,
While I like to stop and talk,
To the other dog owners,
Some of whom are moaners.
In the summer they say,
“It’s too hot out today.”
In the winter they’re cold,
And complain their bones have grown old.
The dogs never care,
What the weather is out there.
Wind, rain, sleet, or snow,
They’re ready to go.
I think Monte is wise,
Because he never sighs.
He takes joy in each day,
And remembers to play!