One of the best contemporary artist/poets working today who can be found over at poemimage.com gave me inspiration to post some of my amateurish artwork, so without further ado, here are a few:
As with everything else in my life, I only tried painting for a few years and gave it up.
Happy New Year
MK
The anchor is weighed now, we sail thus to spring
The clamor of autumn, of color, takes wing
She’s followed the snow geese, her leaves lie to fade
My heart lies among them, in sadness ‘tis stayed.
A mist lies upon me, I cannot now smile
Because of sad places, at hope’s ending mile
There steeped in bleak sorrow, where dwell hopeless fears
They cry in the darkness, but only God hears.
The man of sin bides there, unknown to the soul
Of innocent travelers, who shan’t now grow old
No more shall they live there in homes they loved well
As evil came sudden, aroaring and fell.
They’re taken in violence, their murderers smile
The man of sin bides there, but only a while
Take heart, all the children in God’s care abide
They’ll witness His judgement on their genocide.
The son of perdition, whose evil is known
Will beg Him for mercy but none will be shown.
With tears of torn mothers forever to weigh
A debt that will take him forever to pay.
The fires of hell ‘wait him, and all who supply
Arrows and swords and consent when they try
To dispel the memory of sin as their hell
Visited peasants and homes where they fell.
The anchor is weighed now, we sail where we will
And autumn’s upon us, we ‘wait winters chill
Come springtime their darkness shall change into light
He’ll welcome His children who fought the good fight.
MK 12/01/23
I am a great bald eagle. I’ve soared through the heavens for countless ages, over landscapes carefully arranged and placed by the Creator, landscapes once pristine, peaceful, and of magnificent beauty. I watched as strangers arrived here and tried to possess land that did not, could not, belong to them. I saw them slay the inhabitants, people who had learned to live in harmony with the mountains, rivers, great animal herds in a way so as to preserve the creation over which they held stewardship.
Intruders arrogated to themselves control of this nation over which I fly, and slaughtered any who opposed them. Those who could not, did not contest them were sent to arid dungeons of deserts; places that were of no attraction; of no wealth. I’ve soared over countless swathes of prairie where bleached bones lay desiccated among ancient and rotted remains of native settlements. Men do not know that even the majestic eagle dares to weep.
Somewhere in the Distance
Somewhere in the distance, on this bleak and lonely plain
‘Neath midnight skies of silver stars, a lone coyote’s refrain
Drifts along the prairie breeze in melancholy notes
Heard by none but ranch hands lying watchful ‘neath their coats.
A tumbleweed soon pauses from his trek which knows no end
And sighs the softest whisper to the chilly prairie wind
Perhaps a new direction on the lonely breeze to go
He’s roamed this land and knows of all its secrets high and low.
A full moon rises into view as ancient ghosts appear
Of weathered buildings, once a town, now dead for scores of years
Rusted hinges moan their tales as doors swing to and fro,
The gallows rots to dust as did her victims long ago.
The piercing call of Navajo is heard here nevermore
His tepee warm no longer stands, his woman at the door.
But why has man since disappeared where once such life abound’?
And why is no one living on this prairie to be found?
Perhaps if we could learn the song the coyote sadly sings
Or secrets told by tumbleweeds, or rotted doors that swing
Perhaps we might then understand why only ghosts remain
To ever haunt ‘neath midnight moon this bleak and lonely plain.
Mike Kitchens
So it began. The birth of a monstrosity that would grow to devour the world over which we great birds fly. They had the temerity to appoint me to occupy a position I did not seek. My image adorns every significant representation of their claims of ownership. They shame me. They own nothing. When they pass through that portal, the land they had claimed is still beneath me. Had they truly owned the land of this nation I watch, they would have taken it with them. They did not; they could not. They own nothing.
Damp winds in moldy forest blow
Through melancholy pines
Who ever whisper tales of old
And long-forgotten times
Of days gone by long years ago
When people dwelt within
An old house falling to decay
As do most dreams of men
Of crumbling walls once cheerful white
Now darkened mossy green
As smilax claims the last few boards
Of corn crib to be seen
Of children born in rooms of mirth
Whose walls would watch them grow
And footfalls upon wooden floors
Of feet they came to know.
Those same old oaken floors received
The salty drops of tears
Shed at sad departures as
Those lives came full of years.
The door yet hangs but stands ajar
No longer passed by man
Dim portal to a doleful world
Of memories where it stands
Forever trapped within this grove
Of hawthorn ‘neath the pines
Who ever whisper tales of old
And long-forgotten times.
Through life we sail an ocean vast, of depths we rarely sound, Experience; the lonely mast to which our sails are bound. To navigate this endless sea, no aid might chart convey, Nor indeed will sextant be of help to find our way.
Essentials for life’s voyage long are few, but precious held; An ear to hear the ocean’s song, an eye to see the swell. A heart that learns to choose between the winding strait we know, Or open sea with risk unseen where storm and wind may blow.
The distant isles great fortune hold, with ports of promise filled. To winds of hope let sails unfold, with wisdom at the till.
ABE2 MK (Ship drawing by Camryn Axworthy)