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ECHO HILL STUDIOS
ARTIST: ANN KAHL
I live in the mountains.
My house is filled with shells.
They bring to me the rush of sea, the smell and taste of salt.
The shells laugh at the mountains and the mountains laugh back.
The smell and taste of pine and salt is beautiful to me.
I live in the mountains.
My lover lives by the sea.
The World of Art
I went to a museum today.
I hadn't been before.
They handed me a cloud of color,
Just inside the door.
All the walls were bright and bare.
I stood before the first.
And while I tried to understand,
My cloud of color burst.
It left my arms and wavered high,
Then settled on the wall.
And plainly, there before my eye,
The strangest sight of all.
DaVinci's love had come to life.
Each tint was clear and new.
I gazed with yearning and delight
And knew that it was true.
I understood, insatiable,
And stretched out wide my arms.
My cloud came back and settled there;
Bare wall; but no alarms!
My cloud and I met every wall,
And glory met my sight.
I didn't leave the gallery then,
But stayed into the night.
And when I wander through the mire
Of tenement and crowd,
I reach into my pocket
And bring forth my precious cloud.
Through the millenium.
Clocks that tell time
The hours descending.
Too late for this, too soon for that.
Now is the hour to open the oven
Take out the sustenance cocktails forgot.
What is a day and night?
Does someone really care?
Who is this God who will care for us all?
Please build a better clock.
Can't you see now that my baby is crying?
What can I do with my guests so demanding?
Where am I going?
Only though fog which was here yesterday.
Build an alarm.
Make it a real one.
A real true, alarming one.
Wake up my love and my baby and me.
Let us know truly the taste of good tea.
Wake me up, Clockmaker.
Build your alarms.
Reach through the heavens,
Then back to my arms.
How foolish, old Time.
How false I can be.
I cannot obliterate now,
It is me.
I Lift My Pen
I lift my pen-that's true.
And see what I have written-that is past.
There are words on this page and that is true.
And now I feel my living last and last.
How hard I try to understand.
And all that I have learned becomes a worn-out thinking,
Grasping thoughts that soon become out-classed by new impressions.
Mind? No, reason stalemates what should be for me
A glimpse into eternity.
And if this thing occur?
Experience, a glow, enlightenment-what then?
Does my time stop?
A simple call to friend become a nightmare of "you shoudn't have called at ten?"
Simplicities of Eastern thought
Confuse the Western mind.
But science also has its place in love, and understanding those whose frailness cries "be kind."
Past and future carefully planned to guard against the fears of death.
Pleas for relative forgiveness begged from non existent breath.
Eastern man can change it not,
Nor can his Western kin.
Now is ever present-even common sense can win.
But acquiesence somehow seems to me a poorer plan.
I raise my potion high and challange all the wisdom of the East and also, all the true magnificence of Western man.
Infinite the Tints Arrayed
Infinite the tints arrayed
Each infant is assigned a shade.
What color can yours be?
Humans are not numberless.
Round figures capture all.
Those who lived and those who live,
And those born just this fall.
Each one is a universe
Perceiving his pastel,
Illuminating others 'til
The final toll of bell.
Compassion I can bring to you
With sympathy o'erlaid.
But empathy cannot be true,
While universe we both perceive
But in a different shade.
How hard you've worked, and quietly I watch your eyes at rest, in peaceful sleep
To you it is not work, I know, searching avid in the forest for a mushroom brighter than the one you found before.
Climbing over ever higher mounds of rock to catch the sunset, even as its loveliness is fading into deepest, darkest night-
The disappointment when your evening meal is refound in its pail upon the beach, dried, forgotten by a sudden rush for just a taste of sea dipped up by eager hands, the tools of mind's forever searching for experience of life.
It is not work for you, those hands are not your tools, not yours, and searching is not something that you need to do.
Somehow you've always known that this is not a game of seek and find.
I watch your sleep, a sleep untroubled in a way that would seem hardly natural to most men.
And when you wake, it's never for a purpose; not the sleepwalk most men seem to know until the saddest day when eyes are opened to a three-score year of frantic striving and the sudden knowledge that they are alone, with nothing.
Rest, my love. I'm watching through the night the life you are.
A small, brown spider, dropping, climbing up again, attaching woven dream to dream, reaffirms the pageantry, the miracle of life.
Oh, joy complete in knowing your brown eyes will part and blink, and open wide to see this wondrous thing.
And through the watching of the building of this gift I want to bring
My heart knows with a boundless leap the gift of life which you have helped to make so true for me,
And we are one, we two, and mushrooms, and the spider, and the sea.
Decades I Have Spent
Decades I have spent in search of knowledge.
Much I've learned and little have I gained.
And yet the brilliant flash which quenched my thirst was but an instant.
Contentment holds me quietly entranced as all my senses garner in the joys inherant in the simplest things forsaken by an adolescent mind.
I yearn to bring to you the riches I posess by dint of waking, tapestries unfolding muted brilliance of a graying day
Oh World I love, your eyes are closed and needless agony would almost seem to be your birthright.
Mutual exchange of pain; this nightmare of a continuing existence never meant itself to be.
And I in selfishness can only pray,
A billion eyes to open in a flash and make tomorrow be for me the lovely thing I am today.
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