Had some fun putting together this logo for the site. A site just doesn’t seem complete without its own lil’ trademark, am I right? It’s whimsical and I think engaging. Monk in a cowl, maybe?
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Sometimes the door is a jar
and other times the windows are breezy,
but over all, time and time again,
the clock upon the wall,
is just a memory of by gone days.
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Sometimes a day is a minute,
other times it seems forever,
each moment adding to the age,
winding down the moments,
writings upon a musky page.
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Perhaps at some point
I will climb the highest peek,
and look above the faces
all ticking for their cliques,
all pacing for their races.
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Maybe, just maybe,
I can seek that endless out,
and find my way back home,
where trails lead to some places,
and footprints leave no traces.
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Clouds move in a variety of ways
winds push across the face
leaves that fall at the thundering
waves that caress upon the shore.
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Are these not the delicacies of life?
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Stars align with open skies
storms progress into fields
birds take flight upon the seasons
mountains look down upon feet.
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Are these not the glory of living?
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Eyes roam across the horizon
hands caress with tenderness
hearts move on waves
feet dance with songs.
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I remember very young in my youth
as a boisterous, uneven, man.
Side by side in the mirror
examining who I am.
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The years grow long, my time is older.
The warmth of life and love…
it’s a little slower and a bit less bolder.
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But to one who seeks the truth
it is just a passing day.
Another place and rest
somewhere for my hat to lay.
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The time will come when one must sleep
and the world will fade away.
But lo, sweet friend, there is more to see
and his face you’ll meet on that eternal day.
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New and original drawing from Robert McColley, the beginning of a short series. This is an 11×14 on archival paper and archival inks. It is free form as all my drawing have been throughout the years. My work has been exhibited in northern and southern California, as well as Manhattan, NY. and some places in between such as, Montana, and even into Canada.
These are usually sold as a set of four or eight, but folks do buy them alone as well. Feel free to make contact if you have interest. Thank you.
11×17 original drawing by Robert McColley. -
We are all a witness to the outrage,
watching all the signs unfold,
counting mayhem each passing day,
iniquity abound and many grown cold.
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This is the time we were made for,
known since and from the beginning,
to stand amidst the broken minds,
voices dried out and dimming.
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They compete for what they don’t own,
whats not theirs even if taken,
rioting their truth down your block,
each murder the pride of their flock,
every seize on your life is a lock,
your head pulsing with each beat of the clock.
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The enemy has set the pace,
and the weak are willing and able,
fooled to believe what they may gather,
but the playbook they follow is deaths fable.
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Civil war is the end of the road,
the web will be monitored with law,
people will be locked up for the truth,
spirits will be broken in the fall.
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Today I walked through the finite,
took a turn at the waves,
dialed into the sounds,
dived down the depths of the sub.
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This place is far out and its not that far off,
full of creatures that thrive on the heaviness,
they feed in the darkness off the bottom,
gorge on the life that is swimming.
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There are big swimmers and little swimmers,
down here in the mass,
they flourish and dominate the matter,
turning the mind to and fro.
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When the waves are disrupted
and twist the currents into chaos,
they scatter through their psyche,
and cling to what makes them real.
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The big picture is convoluted,
for the hiding of the truth,
many fish will be netted,
and never have a clue.
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My walk succumbed to consciousness,
where the waves took on to air,
and I moved above the aether,
to the place with others aware.
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From here we watch the flame.
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Breath,
it’s the essence of living,
it’s the loosening in death.
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Breath,
it defines what we say,
it expresses the way we hurt.
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Breath,
it’s in the choices we make,
to believe or not believe,
we have that free will.
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In the breath,
our hearts are revealed,
in the breath,
our thoughts are unsealed.
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Where does your breath flow from?
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Breathe to share love,
breathe to give hope,
breathe to bring life.
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A seared mind has no breath,
a cold heart does not breathe,
divided hearts and minds are not breath,
they smother the love and care,
they pollute and decay good air.
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And when it’s gone;
it’s gone.
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Tranquil disruption
over uneven grounds
set firmly into sinking
piercing quiet sounds.
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Somewhere in the storm
my mind is at its rest
caravan of dismay
turning at every behest.
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Perhaps the clouds will part today
and show me an endless ocean
my sitting in a craggy calm
arresting my soul in motion.
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No matter says the inward voice
I will come again at eve
surround you with the world at large
and weight upon your ease.
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Every trumpet across the sky,
was a call for all to awaken,
but sleeping is a Rosy red,
that covers the scent of death,
and waking is now a sickness,
where anyone can lose their ‘breath.’
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Between the calm of falling,
and the grace of losing sight,
we have all become the mute,
clinging to the machine’s device.
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Fighting for this, supporting for that,
everyone is the punch line,
dancing feet and rag a tag hats,
juggling falls, hitting walls, forcing stalls.
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The meaning to the point was…?
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