Artist, Designer, Traveler, Writer, Photographer

WHEN TIME IS FULL

We begin again,

When time is full,

Turning away

To a New Silence,

Leaving behind the old,

As the spirit slips away

From the flesh,

Having had enough of moonrise

And sunset,

Parting gracefully

From the beautiful chaos of life.

The title of this poem is “When Time Is Full”. I wrote it in 1999, about five years after the death of a dear friend. Her passing was a shock to me. Hers was the first death of someone close to me and stunned me into my first glimpse of mortality of a person my own age.

The cause of death was no surprise really. Kay was a long-time smoker and lung cancer was the result.

Sometime after her death I felt compelled to create some kind of art to express the deep emotions that I felt at her untimely passing. I was really only drawing in those days and decided to experiment with oil pastel.This piece remains as the single effort in that medium.

DEPARTURE 1994 oil pastel on paper 32.5 x 52.5 inches

DEPARTURE 1994 oil pastel on paper 32.5 x 52.5 inches

The little house is meant to symbolize the earthly aspect each person has in a lifetime. At death we depart our earthly dwelling of flesh for another form of existence.

Decades have passed since the loss of my friend. Time indeed has become full for others in my life. Other dear friends have ended the journey, along with my Mother. But it is most wrenching to think about the loss of my partner Scott, my love for nearly nine years, whose “departure” came only three months ago.

It was not unexpected but it was still a great loss. Those of us left behind find a huge emptiness created by the absence of his “force of nature” personality.

I consider how to express in a work of art what his departure means and how to capture the complexities of such a complicated human being.

For now, another poem from the same year says something about the preciousness of life:

THESE BONES

Lying in some long-forgotten,

Unseen burial place,

These bones,

Fragments of some striding man

Or woman,

Now crumbled into dust

Remnants of some long-ago beauty,

Of warm flesh,

Once agile,

Inhabited by spirit,

Animated by desire-

These bones speak,

Cry out over vanished time,

Speak of a lover’s touch,

Of arms entwined in sleep

Beneath the ancient new moon.

These bones speak

Of sweet joys and bitter sorrows

And private memories,

Invisible now-

Of words once spoken

And dreams once dreamed.

These bones speak-

And we listen.

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