More Artwork and Poetry

View more of my Dad's artwork set to my poetry.

THE AUTIST AS A YOUNG CHILD
My mother had this painting of me in her office
at SJSU.
the child's a fool, the child's a sage
born too soon; he may not die
too old- too young to act his age

calm blue marbles in a flesh-bone cage
squirt laser truth on each white lie
the child's no fool, the child's a sage

he stands aloof in a field of rage
in a vale of tears his mind stays dry
too old- too young to act his age

when boredom looms he flips the page
and shuts the book when others pry
the child's a fool, the child's no sage

luminous eyes take center stage
his face as wide as a northern sky
too old- too young to act his age

teach him now of what and why
all the wisdom life can buy
the child's a fool, the child's a sage
too old- too young to act his age

HEAT TREATED

Here comes the heat

To soften and temper me

To burn holes through 

my hard-headed skin

And when I become a malleable mass

The Master sets me by.

Here comes the hammer

To bang and ping me

To force me into shapes

useful for horses and hinges

And when I become a specific shape

The Master lets me lie.

PORTRAIT OF A DORY IN GRAY

My father painted this sad and sober little dory

Listing listlessly leeward in its lonesome lagoon

As if set spinning its long and lingering story

Weaving in the colors of death's endless tune

She'd maybe been built, I'm thinking, for the sake

Of being rowed along river, estuary, and inlet

To take on netloads of tuna, salmon, and hake

Serving her master years without ruin or regret

But the old salt died and with him, her purpose

He left her tied up in the port of his last breath

Rust and dryrot marring her once-spotless surface

Lonely years of neglect would hasten her death

Cabin and decks were once bright blue and white

Her once-sturdy hull sported bold coats of carmine

But surely as youth's sunshine shades to cold night

Our dory's graying colors spell the end of the line