Poet in the House

 My spouse is a Poet (James Thomas Fletcher) with a dozen published books and even an award from the Smithsonian Institute. 

His poetry group has set November as an interim poetry month (April is the real National Poetry Month) and that means poets make themselves write daily, actively seeking subjects and inspiration. Yesterday- deep into the night while normal people were sleeping (me) he seized one of my tiny paintings and wrote this poem. Nothing like procrastination! He did not know the title or what it is about. I told him this morning... 


Rushing Wind

Love, like a google doodle.

A spaceman diving through atmospheres

or is that underwater

into the "L"

That's how we fall into Love.

No, could be

a body prone on the sidewalk

blood pooling from the head.

Back to Love

for distress has no place here.

Yellow to focus your attention

pinning it to the bottom left corner.

A celebratory yellow.

Green for garden

but then the spaceman becomes

a bird in flight.

See those wings with streaks and swirls.

The background the blue of skies

but could be water.

A pink puddle there

and shoots of pink there, there, and there.

Wait, one is orange and one maroon.

To the far right a ribbon

of that frolicsome yellow for counterbalance.

Thin etchings of black attempt

to hold it all together--to create an idea.

Or else to explode that myth out of you.

Touches of periwinkle.

The tiniest of black smudges

contrast with the emptiness of white.

If it's sky, are those clouds?

If it's water, are those reflections?

Not harsh. Soft.

Inviting the mind to play.

Above the yellow, that might be music.

Kinetic. Both of these dimensions

cause your mind to move.


What is it supposed to be? What is it called?

The artist sleeps in the next room

so I cannot ask.



I must say I prefer this description and it makes more sense to me than art criticism. 

This is a watercolor, pastel and ink painting of a tornado and it is in my personal collection. We live in Tornado Alley USA. We both spent our childhoods watching them fly by. 


Rushing Wind by permission of James Thomas Fletcher


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