When next we meet
To play again
Pray we both have
Another song
In our quiver
Another melody
To hum along
Another lyric
To sing the song
Another rhyme
To give some reason
Another tune
To howl at the moon
On our way to Mars
When next we meet
To play again
Pray we both have
Another song
In our quiver
For Sketches
By Denis J. kelly
July 21, 2013
Sunday, July 21, 2013
Breaking Camp Again
Breaking camp again
10 a.m. Sunday
So many have already gone
Some leave right from breakfast
Others use the hour after
To pack cars
Clean rooms
Close windows
Double check
Cars laden with bikes
Pillows sheets
Fans that were never needed
In these cool Catskill heights
Luggage toys cards souvenirs
Those new T-shirts
One with bears across the chest
Other with a regal wolf face
CD player and too many CDs
Never had the time to play half of them
Too busy with camp stuff
Hikes games campfires
Walks
Naps in an Adirondack chair
Hypnotized by the sway of the trees
Varying breezes accompanying invisible timeless solitudes
Backpacks empty now
Not needed for a hike today
The hike today is the haul home
Boots stowed
Homeward bound
Thinking about
Miles away from these woods
Being welcomed home
By lowlands humidity
Unpacking
Showering
Gnoshing
Finally crawling into the familiar nest
Last lazy snooze of vacation
Breaking camp again
10 a.m. Sunday
For Sketches
By Denis J. kelly
July 21, 2013
10 a.m. Sunday
So many have already gone
Some leave right from breakfast
Others use the hour after
To pack cars
Clean rooms
Close windows
Double check
Cars laden with bikes
Pillows sheets
Fans that were never needed
In these cool Catskill heights
Luggage toys cards souvenirs
Those new T-shirts
One with bears across the chest
Other with a regal wolf face
CD player and too many CDs
Never had the time to play half of them
Too busy with camp stuff
Hikes games campfires
Walks
Naps in an Adirondack chair
Hypnotized by the sway of the trees
Varying breezes accompanying invisible timeless solitudes
Backpacks empty now
Not needed for a hike today
The hike today is the haul home
Boots stowed
Homeward bound
Thinking about
Miles away from these woods
Being welcomed home
By lowlands humidity
Unpacking
Showering
Gnoshing
Finally crawling into the familiar nest
Last lazy snooze of vacation
Breaking camp again
10 a.m. Sunday
For Sketches
By Denis J. kelly
July 21, 2013
Thursday, March 14, 2013
Still Life
Still life
And sunshine
Londonderry air
And Roscommon rain
Flowers and tweed hat
Walking cane and happy trails
Springtime
And about time
Way too long
Since can't remember when
Way too long
Since can't remember when
Thank you
Friend
Thank you
Friend
Coming out of a fog
To still life
And sunshine
Londonderry air
And Roscommon rain
Flowers and tweed hat
Walking cane and happy trails
Spring time
And about time
Way too long
Since can't remember when
Way too long
Since can't remember when
Thank you
Friend
Thank you
Friend
For Sketches
By Denis J. Kelly
March 14, 2013
And sunshine
Londonderry air
And Roscommon rain
Flowers and tweed hat
Walking cane and happy trails
Springtime
And about time
Way too long
Since can't remember when
Way too long
Since can't remember when
Thank you
Friend
Thank you
Friend
Coming out of a fog
To still life
And sunshine
Londonderry air
And Roscommon rain
Flowers and tweed hat
Walking cane and happy trails
Spring time
And about time
Way too long
Since can't remember when
Way too long
Since can't remember when
Thank you
Friend
Thank you
Friend
For Sketches
By Denis J. Kelly
March 14, 2013
Wednesday, February 27, 2013
Angelo And Jake
Angelo had never ever understood
Jake's fascination with news
Angelo's was a world of pigment and shape
Intuitively his dreams' language conveyed concepts
Not in words
But in blocks and lines and shades
And gradations of lights and rainbows
Mrs. Tenley his writing teacher would say
Angelo your compositions are always so visual
You take after your brethren of the canvas
Yet you might talk here
To your friend Jake our journalist
Who can focus his thoughts even when
He only knows topically about a subject
That which his questions have yielded
In answers posed to experts in the field
It was an observation Angelo knew
To be only half true
For he had been to the museum exhibit with Jake
His best friend since Freshman year
And knew by looking at his compatriot's eyes
That something had touched him
He was more than merely reporting the news
Angelo said to Mrs. Tenley
Perhaps you would be pleasantly surprised
At Jake's depth about these paintings
As he walked through the exhibit
It had been as if Jake had been posing for a master to study to portray
Jake had been studying the master's subjects'
Their eyes their hands their expressions the master's brush strokes
As intensly as the painter must have done himself
In sizing up his subjects
You should have seen Jake's face Angelo said
With his ears almost curved and curious
Almost like a dog straining
To not just hear but to discern
Angelo's eyes were as blue as the waters of Puget Sound
On a crisp clean cool August afternoon
Not a cloud in the sky
Not a one
The storms of concentration congregated
Deep in the furrows of his brow
Deep in the chasms at the top of his nose
Between his eyes
Where glasses might rest
And Angelo's focus was riveted
As if through a prism of understanding
Angelo said to Mrs. Tenley
Yes I do confess
I have never ever understood
Jake's fascination with news
Not that I don't admire him no
He is my friend
And he is very good at what he does
But mine
Madame Professor
Thank goodness
And I am not embarrassed to say
Mine is a world of pigment and shape
And the drama the dialogue the argument the resolution
Of the visual
Frozen in all its passion on canvas
I intuitively imagine such battlefields and armistices
In my sleep
But that day
That day in the museum
I also saw battlefields and armistices
And the decades of recriminations and ramifications afterward
I saw them in Jake's face
You would be surprised to know
Pleasantly surprised
Mrs. Tenley said
No Angelo what I am pleasantly surprised about
Is the journalism
You just produced
My apprentice painter
Understanding the essence of reporting
About Jake your best friend
For Sketches
By Denis J. Kelly
February 27, 2013
Jake's fascination with news
Angelo's was a world of pigment and shape
Intuitively his dreams' language conveyed concepts
Not in words
But in blocks and lines and shades
And gradations of lights and rainbows
Mrs. Tenley his writing teacher would say
Angelo your compositions are always so visual
You take after your brethren of the canvas
Yet you might talk here
To your friend Jake our journalist
Who can focus his thoughts even when
He only knows topically about a subject
That which his questions have yielded
In answers posed to experts in the field
It was an observation Angelo knew
To be only half true
For he had been to the museum exhibit with Jake
His best friend since Freshman year
And knew by looking at his compatriot's eyes
That something had touched him
He was more than merely reporting the news
Angelo said to Mrs. Tenley
Perhaps you would be pleasantly surprised
At Jake's depth about these paintings
As he walked through the exhibit
It had been as if Jake had been posing for a master to study to portray
Jake had been studying the master's subjects'
Their eyes their hands their expressions the master's brush strokes
As intensly as the painter must have done himself
In sizing up his subjects
You should have seen Jake's face Angelo said
With his ears almost curved and curious
Almost like a dog straining
To not just hear but to discern
Angelo's eyes were as blue as the waters of Puget Sound
On a crisp clean cool August afternoon
Not a cloud in the sky
Not a one
The storms of concentration congregated
Deep in the furrows of his brow
Deep in the chasms at the top of his nose
Between his eyes
Where glasses might rest
And Angelo's focus was riveted
As if through a prism of understanding
Angelo said to Mrs. Tenley
Yes I do confess
I have never ever understood
Jake's fascination with news
Not that I don't admire him no
He is my friend
And he is very good at what he does
But mine
Madame Professor
Thank goodness
And I am not embarrassed to say
Mine is a world of pigment and shape
And the drama the dialogue the argument the resolution
Of the visual
Frozen in all its passion on canvas
I intuitively imagine such battlefields and armistices
In my sleep
But that day
That day in the museum
I also saw battlefields and armistices
And the decades of recriminations and ramifications afterward
I saw them in Jake's face
You would be surprised to know
Pleasantly surprised
Mrs. Tenley said
No Angelo what I am pleasantly surprised about
Is the journalism
You just produced
My apprentice painter
Understanding the essence of reporting
About Jake your best friend
For Sketches
By Denis J. Kelly
February 27, 2013
Saturday, December 29, 2012
Josephine
Life love
You fit like a glove
Nudge shove
Coo of the turtle dove
Come Josephine
Wash my soul clean
Oh Josephine
We make a great team
Dear Josephine
Cold April dream
Sweet Josephine
Hot August steam
Life love
You fit like a glove
Nudge shove
Coo of the turtle dove
For Sketches
Denis J. Kelly
Dec. 29, 2012
You fit like a glove
Nudge shove
Coo of the turtle dove
Come Josephine
Wash my soul clean
Oh Josephine
We make a great team
Dear Josephine
Cold April dream
Sweet Josephine
Hot August steam
Life love
You fit like a glove
Nudge shove
Coo of the turtle dove
For Sketches
Denis J. Kelly
Dec. 29, 2012
Tuesday, December 18, 2012
Young Rene
Young Rene stepped out
Out from the museum's marble floor
Out from the toned confines
Of the gallery's walls its halls
Out into the wild world its crazy forms
Trying to recapture in words
Its raw beauty
Its refined tenderness
Like what had been depicted
By the masterpieces he had witnessed
With his own eyes
His own heart
He felt deep down to the depths of his soul
Not that he wanted to reproduce the masters
Now dead and buried
Some for hundreds of years
But that he wanted to feel a kinship
With beings who at one time felt similar to him
About his art
About his gift
About his explorations
Akin to the sensibilities
Of this collection of painters
These breakers of new ground
These front-line soldiers
Along the continuum of human expression
But how could this be accomplished
It is always so difficult to match one mode of human expression
With another
Trying to parallel the style
The grace
The touch
In a different medium
Still the expressions that their paints and strokes
Tried to capture and share
The colors the textures
It had all intrigued Young Rene
He felt overwhelmed as he stepped out
Out from the museum's marble floor
Out from the toned confines
Of the gallery's walls its halls
Out into the wild world its crazy forms
It all had imbued in him a burning desire
To capture in words
Its raw beauty
Its refined tenderness
Like had been depicted
By the masterpieces he had witnessed
With his eyes
With his heart
For Sketches
Denis J. Kelly
Dec. 18, 2012
Out from the museum's marble floor
Out from the toned confines
Of the gallery's walls its halls
Out into the wild world its crazy forms
Trying to recapture in words
Its raw beauty
Its refined tenderness
Like what had been depicted
By the masterpieces he had witnessed
With his own eyes
His own heart
He felt deep down to the depths of his soul
Not that he wanted to reproduce the masters
Now dead and buried
Some for hundreds of years
But that he wanted to feel a kinship
With beings who at one time felt similar to him
About his art
About his gift
About his explorations
Akin to the sensibilities
Of this collection of painters
These breakers of new ground
These front-line soldiers
Along the continuum of human expression
But how could this be accomplished
It is always so difficult to match one mode of human expression
With another
Trying to parallel the style
The grace
The touch
In a different medium
Still the expressions that their paints and strokes
Tried to capture and share
The colors the textures
It had all intrigued Young Rene
He felt overwhelmed as he stepped out
Out from the museum's marble floor
Out from the toned confines
Of the gallery's walls its halls
Out into the wild world its crazy forms
It all had imbued in him a burning desire
To capture in words
Its raw beauty
Its refined tenderness
Like had been depicted
By the masterpieces he had witnessed
With his eyes
With his heart
For Sketches
Denis J. Kelly
Dec. 18, 2012
Sunday, December 9, 2012
Antonio Astascio
He called himself Antonio Astascio
As he floated down the hill
The end of the line of Madison Park
An angelic section of Seattle
To the dock out onto Lake Washington
In full view of the floating bridge
Bridges don't float he screamed
Though only the insides of his imagination
Heard his melodiy in time
Bridges don't float he refrained
They fly they rise they hover
As he twirled and soft-shoed
Out onto the dock
Imagining it to be a stage catwalk
Out into an audience
Where he would show off his new-found dance shoes
I don't float he screamed
Though only the mirror of mirth in his imagination
Caught his inflection and guffawed
And cried
I don't float I aint no dancer I ain't no bridge
Oh sweet high stepper of these boards
Oh give me the gift to ply your planks
Oh inspire me in the performance of a lifetime
Oh help me to grace your humble yet timeless stage
With a creation appropriate to this view
The beauty of this lake
The texture of this inked cotton sky
Black and white watercolor canopy
And this contradiction from the world of science
Bridges don't float
And this contradiction from the world of art
I don't float
One-man symposium on magic convened on the spot
When he called himself Antonio Astascio
As he floated down the hill
The end of the line of Madison Park
An angelic section of Seatle
To the dock out onto Lake Washington
In full view of the floating bridge
For Sketches
Denis J. Kelly
Dec. 9, 2012
As he floated down the hill
The end of the line of Madison Park
An angelic section of Seattle
To the dock out onto Lake Washington
In full view of the floating bridge
Bridges don't float he screamed
Though only the insides of his imagination
Heard his melodiy in time
Bridges don't float he refrained
They fly they rise they hover
As he twirled and soft-shoed
Out onto the dock
Imagining it to be a stage catwalk
Out into an audience
Where he would show off his new-found dance shoes
I don't float he screamed
Though only the mirror of mirth in his imagination
Caught his inflection and guffawed
And cried
I don't float I aint no dancer I ain't no bridge
Oh sweet high stepper of these boards
Oh give me the gift to ply your planks
Oh inspire me in the performance of a lifetime
Oh help me to grace your humble yet timeless stage
With a creation appropriate to this view
The beauty of this lake
The texture of this inked cotton sky
Black and white watercolor canopy
And this contradiction from the world of science
Bridges don't float
And this contradiction from the world of art
I don't float
One-man symposium on magic convened on the spot
When he called himself Antonio Astascio
As he floated down the hill
The end of the line of Madison Park
An angelic section of Seatle
To the dock out onto Lake Washington
In full view of the floating bridge
For Sketches
Denis J. Kelly
Dec. 9, 2012
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