A poem & a painting for Monday

I love this artwork by Elliott Puckette, spotted over on Paul Kasmin Gallery...

... and this poem by Richard Hugo. I'm still enjoying his poetry so very much.

Blue Stone
A blue stone is only one piece
of a huge blue stone no one can find.
A blue stone is anything but
a blue stone. It is a speck of sky
in your hand or a tiny bit of sea.
Of all stones, it contains
the most magics. It can veer your life
away from poverty to riches. It can grow a tree
exactly where you need shade. Just rub
a blue stone and make a wish. A blue stone
becomes the blue marble shooter
you won all those marble games with.
I always act indifferent
around blue stones, sort of nonchalant
like I feel they're nothing special.
That way they work best for me.
I avoid cold faces amd cruel remarks.
When I sail a blue stone downwind into
the long blue day, armies stop.
When I sail a blue stone into the wind
that always precedes a rain in Montana
and then find the stone and pick it up
a bird sings blue rain.
Days I can't find a blue stone
no matter where I look, I know they're returned
every one to the big blue stone they came from
somewhere in the blue mountains,
somewhere unmapped and roadless
that can't be seen from the air.
Related Posts with Thumbnails