Macro Poems

What is it?
A landscape? Maybe.
Or a city, desert or
Under the sea?

Upside down,
Downside up?
Possibly something
About to erupt?

Dots, lines, and colors.
Buildings, pillars or rock?
Sky melds down to earth,
Water and sand by a dock?

A quiet voice whispers
Close your eyes, don’t debate
Now open just one, its an E
Scape.

(see illustration with poem)

by Greg Thweatt © 2024

Welcome dearest, why such a start?
Its really quite normal
Created and guided here from the heart
So simple and gentle, no need to be formal.

Relax and exhale, to be perfectly mortal
Without any angles, just the curling of curves
While your soul is the guide through a beautiful portal
Its lovely and light, all that one surely deserves.

You needn’t have wings nor a pilot who serves
As a way of ascension.
Such wonder, creation, and all of your oeuvres
Float quietly by on the back of intention
In the space between day and of night
Eternally soar in the grace of twilight.

(see illustration with poem)

by Greg Thweatt © 2024

To shudder each eye
And fade away
Into the looking glass,
Resolving to take what may.
Fare Forward!
Fellow traveler
Grasp all your best
Then spite the dark unraveller,
Whose hearts are dashed
Upon the ragged rocks,
Cleaving divine madness
Into gold and ashen lots.

by Greg Thweatt © 2024

I am astounded by YOU.
Surprised in both
Events and frequency.
Those wondrous times
Are not defined
In magnitude of scale,
As earth lifted or cliffs sheered
By hurricane’s wind and wave.
No, they are formed
In the womb of a whisper.

Through the lens of your gaze.
One sigh above each gentle laugh.
A cell’s thickness away in your touch.
These littlest of moments move
The soul as hurling herds
Collapse the ground of my roots.
Blessed is each tiny gift,
Reaching deep
Slowly
Softly.

See an illustration inspired to write this poem.

by Greg Thweatt © 2024

Icy lines with unhurried snow
Walking under laced green fir
Above framed with laden branches
Unnoticed an owl traces each step.
I wonder if she knows
Its a symbol for the wise?
Or instead watches in apathy
With curiosity my passing by
As nothing more than a one
That doesn’t know how to fly?

See an illustration inspired to write this poem.

by Greg Thweatt © 2023

Hey God, lets go for a walk?
It sounds odd, an unlikely question to ask.
Yet simple, no etiquette, rules.
Conventions or task.

As the hike began through trees
And light rain
I wondered “How do I start?”
So, I kept it quite plain.

“How are you doing God?”
I imagined the ask was rather rare
“Your being is in everything
And for this I care.”

As I stepped over roots and adjusted the pace
My monolog listed my sorrows and pains
I keep giving each one saying “here you go God”
And asked why it all still remains?”

I’ve learned much these past months
Since bliss slipped away,
Unearthing assumptions, dispelling beliefs
While holding the pain each minute, hour, and day.

I explained how I yearned to go back
In time, to practice what now
Seemed obvious and clear changing
Reality some how.

My thoughts slipped away with the smell
Of damp cedar and the cry of a hawk
It took a few moments and returned
To Our talk.

“It’s hard to keep loving and lead from the heart”
Then a thought surged from no where
“These answers you know”
From God came a voice that clearly was there.

“You are a human being, a feeler, and thinker and doer
In the spell of beliefs that led you astray
And now your soul surges with creation and knowing
A blessing embellishes each single day.”

The answers fell deeply in the cracks of my heart
With the promise to speak true, listen for clarity,
Act on what I know all the time doing my best
Bowing to humility, grace and temerity.

As the cadence of life churns
I can start each walk the same way
In seeing with reverence and asking
“Hi God, how was your day?”

See poem with artwork

Greg Thweatt © 2023

When will it rain?
When will it pour?
Dry brittle beds,
Deep lonely shore.
So draught commenced
Without seeing without knowing
Belief blindly hid
Each signal quickly growing.
As ghosts emerge with
Muted horns and skinless drum
Parade the memories snaking
Through an empty slum.
Too weak to clap
Or will to try
The ducts are cold
Each pale and dry.
There sits just one
Dissolved in thought
No tears are found,
Begged, borrowed, or bought.
Then grief plateaus
While numbness levels off
Silent prayer for tears
Gently and soft.
Dreams once flourished
Distilled to dust
Solutes left behind
Of fragile trust
Somehow some way
The tide will rise above the pain
When it will pour.
When it will rain.

See poem with artwork

Greg Thweatt © 2023

(after seeing the milkweed share their little clouds)

A raised hand placed in mine
Fragile with deep strength
An essence that ran though
My heart’s depth and weight.
The time was troubled, moving
Or thought, the need for help was asked
It was simple, the answer was yes
And unsure though clarity of task.
It was easy to guide and remind
Of a future we could make
Push forward into the unknown
With grace in mistake.
I shrouded with love, commitment
And defended each fall.
As the energy grew the constriction
Stayed taught despite the grave call.
Beliefs clouded what was and soon
Resentment accrued, as the monarch
Frees from the silken wrap, unfurling it’s wings
Leapt high in an arc
Not to return, or a maid stretching hands
To the sky, holding the place
Where the soul needs the most
A vast spreading space.
Our rhythm’s diverged, the pace so apart
Like the milkweed caught in a wind
We find the same place
Though times different, the end.

Greg Thweatt © 2023

Watch a video of the poem with music

(a remembrance of twilight, an old tree swing, and music from a nearby house).

Grey sky, black trees,
This lovely place of mine
Day seeps away
It is the tweening time.

Swing hung from weathered branch
old rope secures the plank.
A kick, a lean, the world dissolves,
As water on the bank.

Jazz plays from somewhere near,
a concert just for one.
Thoughts fly away into the gap
While night folds round the sun.

A stronger kick,
The breath held deep
Propelling to the broadest arc.
And then the leap!

A moment brings
No guideline,
Rope nor wood.
So, jazz and air combine.

Firmly planted on the ground.
Thoughts and notes combine
While art and physics dance,
Around the tweening time.

Greg Thweatt © 2023

A
     u
t
u
m
n

    f
  a
l
  l
      s.

As
the tree
tells each
leaf it’s time
to go,

And
so
Shall
I.

Greg Thweatt © 2023

So many are lonely
Why?
There are Ministers of Loneliness
Why?
Parents are told to let children cry at night
Why?
We have so many resources and knowledge, yet so many without
Why?
Everyone needs a license to drive a car but not a gun
Why?
Corporations market addiction
Why?
Fear is a weapon
Why?
Maybe it is not to blame but to ask
Why?

Greg Thweatt © 2023

All I want is to build a life.
A beautiful ship
Made with the timbers of
Love, commitment, and understanding.
Propelled by your fire
Held steady with my water
While the winds of God
Guide us through each day.

Greg Thweatt © 2023

On the occasion when in a crowd feeling lonely or
In the bubble of solitude
I gently pull back the flaps of my world to
Peer inside, considering the inventory of expectations.
Such is that I am unsure to laugh or cry as:

Humans are social animals, they say,
I am supposed to be my own person, they say,
Create connections, they say,
Be independent, they say,
Don’t depend on others, they say,
Build a network, they say,
Listen, they say,
Speak your truth, they say,
Allow vulnerability, they say,
Show no weakness, they say,
Hold steadfast, they say,
Let go, they say,
Be kind, they say,
Have an edge, they say,
Think, they say,
Feel, they say.

Sigh …
I carefully button the flaps wondering
Am I to laugh or am I to cry?

Greg Thweatt © 2023

How I wish to play with words
Chasing, catching, tumbling, and bending
Without the brush of thought
Spreading blocks and patches of doubt.
Flow like water from a spicket
Rapping with no noose of time
Care not for the pattern, pace, or rhyme
With marvel in each wiggle, dot and line.
The work is great before it’s gone
As a mastiff sits patiently and then
With one eye closed, the other balances an eyepiece
Yet disappears leaving only glass and metal rim.

Greg Thweatt © 2023

I toss my wants deep in a drawer
Then hang all needs low on a peg
Out of sight, though muffled rattles from within
Or blindly brush against my leg.
Such is a life when nothing binds
As leaves upon a metal roof.
Shadows in a garbled whisper flow
While I sit staring, lost, aloof.
Each day the world spins one more act
Yet, feel no place to ground, nowhere to give
This love is lost, the eyes go dim
To pass each breath as dust through sieve.
Grasping at pasts sweet vapor, always left
With nothing that I wish to hold
Depending on a deadened dream to
Parry with faith, ragged and old.

Greg Thweatt © 2023

To feel what does not touch
With ears that play to silence
There, eyes weighted to the ground.
I try, no, cry
How my mind can leap the chasm
Between love’s light of dreams and
The cold, cold unlit wick.
A heart more than shattered
Replaced by its shadow.
What is left?
Faith as the vigilant mute
Memories wed with projections
Of that which has yet to arrive
Mourning the past, fearing the future
Adrift in the moment.
Such is the chalice of despair.

Greg Thweatt © 2023

(see the image that inspired the poem)

Water makes no sound,
Until it collides or is constricted.
So was my life until the day
Your presence found and lifted
Something deep inside, my tangled
Skein of hopes, desires and dreams.
As falling over rocks and falls,
Dashed against the banks of streams,
Like pressing through a narrow pipe,
Or transformed as bubbles under heat
You found a way to make a noise
Akin to where two rivers meet.
For long the dam gates were closed
Then woke the hydraulics and began to start
By opening valves to where you flowed
Over my parched and waiting heart.
Water makes no sound
Always here, quietly endowed
As from tidal pools and ponds
To the patient wells below our ground.

Greg Thweatt © 2023

Where does it start, where does it end?
Why not ask the ocean
The place each wave begins.
Book ends or parentheses?
Arrivals then departures?
My answer, I suggest … a sneeze.
It comes without a warning,
Maybe followed by another, or not.
A rush of air and sense of burning
Then it is gone.
No preface or epilog
One unique precious moment
With grace, surprise … a simple analog.

Greg Thweatt © 2023

I opened my mouth
No notes found their way.
I walked to the shore
Asking “where are the waves?”
I sat holding my knees staring
Above, failing to see just one star.
I opened the window wondering
Where was the sun?

Then, a miracle’s melody
From the place that you stood.
Then I heard rolling waves
Framing your face, filling space.
Then the stars reappeared
Falling from the skies of your eyes.
Then the sun shone like a sparrow
Flying from its nest in your chest.

I opened my mouth with your song.
I ran to, then leapt in your waters.
I traveled through your constellations.
And then knelt to our love in your light.

Greg Thweatt © 2022

It is a swirl then a twirl
     as we hurl each other
           into today and the future.
Our love propels me
     then gently tells me to stay,
          singing and sinking into

My favorite moment …
     to my next favorite moment …
          and the next …

Greg Thweatt © 2022

I crawled my way up
To the top of a tree
Then pin-balled back down
At a quarter to three.
There startled a little old man
Squatting in blue and white flowers
Running away tugging and pulling
Up his tattered gray trousers.
The sun started to settle
While the wind took a right turn
There’s lots to be gathered
When we fashion to learn.

Greg Thweatt © 2020

In a garden of dreams
Words dissolve
In the streams
While light from above
Red brilliant with gold
Descend as a dove
On embracing two hearts
A love never ends rather
Grows where it starts.

Greg Thweatt © 2016

Fumbling in her pocket
Three little fears abide
Two more up on the table
One on her nose astride.

With tender touch and care
Gathering each she did,
One, two, three, four and six
(The fifth flew off and hid).

Collected there upon her palm,
Protected by both hands,
Drawn up between the head
And heart in silence there she stands.

Destroyed them not or buried
As in concrete thickly sets,
Avoiding signs with marquee lights
Nor casting out as nets.

Instead there was awareness
Each fear’s reason and their place
The truth that shows a purpose
For a process not a race.

Courage and compassion,
Humbly shines her soul
To hold each fear with love
Will heal and find her whole.

Greg Thweatt © 2015

Standing in front of a painting
Hands in pocket
Squinting … smiling
Imagining the artist
In the same place
The last stroke,
Brush rested,
With the thought
“It is finished”.
All that time ago
Without the knowledge
Of who could see
This creation.
Those the artist loved
Or feared
And mostly would never know.
No matter, the invitation
Was the same …
Come walk with me
Over the edge
Into the painting.

Greg Thweatt © 2015

Walk along the wooded path
Head down day after day.
Sight from the corners
World blurred gray.
Scuffle over root and rock
Lost in the past
Trapped by the future
A ship without a mast.

Greg Thweatt © 2015

Eternity of rain
Day upon day
Begging the desires,
When will it end?

With sudden hope
Clouds break.
Sun erupts
Light tumbles down.

Kneeling
Flat hands
Pressed firm upon
Damp ground.

Steam coils upward
Between spread fingers
As a little god
Collecting embers.

Eyes collapse,
Nostrils flair,
Drops emerge cutting
Through the spirals.

Sadness casts
Shadows that
Silently glow
Showered in gold.

Tiny creatures emerge
In careful measure
Celebrating the
Brevity of warmth.

All ends too soon.
Clouds close,
Rain spits
With tears.

Scatter to safety
Deluge returns
Bright mist stays
Behind closed eyes.

Standing unknowing
Wet earth clasped
Between curled
Fingers and palms.

Greg Thweatt © 2015

For you
Tender thoughts
Wrapped in blue.
Winking a smile
Love’s dew
Sparkles and guides
This heart’s clear view.

Greg Thweatt © 2015

I have a part that
Admires the chameleon,
Changing color to color
Blending into the crowd.

I have a part that
Envies the rainbow
Spraying every hue
‘Gainst a grey cloud.

I wonder
“Can we have
Different parts?”
Someone says
“Never, pick
Just one.”

I nod to reply
“OK”
Then pause
“What about my
Other part
That asks why?”

Greg Thweatt © 2015

Slowly close each eye
Imagine leaping,
The moment when
Ground and air
Are separate by
A single molecule.
Then gravity yawns
(Winks) and we
Are gone.

Greg Thweatt © 2015

You are more than what you expect to be
   more than all the fears of others combined
      greater than the need to conquer
         or fix
            or do.
There is no need to win
   nor win others who need you.
      One job:
          wake and open your eyes
              do what you can so
                  you can do the same
                     tomorrow.
In between be kind,
   show up.
      No gauge of
         big or small.
            Be there, just be
               there.
If no one else sees it,
   over and over and over
      please know that
         what will shine
            is your
               soul.

Greg Thweatt © 2015

To the Little Land of Lilies,
Not the daffodils that
Dot Deirdre’s Digs
Or the fields of phlox
Nor rows of roses
Raised with riddled rags.
Bar the hands with
Shears, angled blade
And sinking spade
In thoughts of thinning
The place of orange and green.
Keep true to this,
Let blooms grow gray,
Stalks bright be brittle,
When nature settles
A simple thought:
Hold time
The same
In the Little Land of Lilies.

Greg Thweatt © 2015

Some say that life
Is a connection of dots
First one then another
Creating straight angles.

I think an alternate shade,
Where each moment
Rests upon a curve,
A collection of arcs.

In time the sight
Reveals the truth
Not from without,
To see it is the center.

Sit and run
Live and turn,
We fall apart then
Fall within the circle.

Greg Thweatt © 2015

Two pair of legs walk along the quay
neither cast a shadow upon the other.
Blue ribbons frame the horizon.
Tall gentle grass
mirror each wave.
Patches of white, they might be daisies
or Queen Anne’s lace,
call to sit.
Two pair of lips share
one breath.
The air between warmed
with darling intentions.
A single world dissolves
resting between the rhythm of
two hearts.

Greg Thweatt © 2015

(Read in entirty with artwork on Blogspot)

There, the corner of the sky float little birds.
Behind gray grids
Tall oak fans wide
She grasps one brittle leaf
Below, its siblings
Swirl root to root.
Above, a crown of crows
Heads pulled inward, mute eyes scanning.
Fragments of car and truck
Pass the gaps ‘tween
Pale wooden slats,
Boundary for the outer world
All seen by one
Anchored to a red green chair.

Body limited by his brittle heart
Buoyed by pyrotechnic pills,
Lungs once a multiverse of bellows
Now air locked catacombs.
Pancreas enslaved to needles,
Joints injured, inflamed, in need
Of repair.
Yearn,
Dream,
Dab the eyes
Wish the arms would grow
And grow
Stretch through the panes
Beyond the oak
Push back the gate
To breath, to walk to
Live easily
Away from the red green chair.

All in a moment
His mind blinks …
Melancholy pulls all back
To darkness.
In blackness color dashes
Scatters, settles in.
What use is hope?
Damn the damage done.
Accept the seat.
What’s left of time?
This stew that is his parts,
Once lid rattling,
Rests cold upon the counter
By the red green chair.

There, upon the knee
Two tiny eyes graced with passion
Coiled from nostril to bristled tail.
Up, blur of fur
Across the lap
White bridge with
Blue and purple shadows.
Hand under ear,
Gentle little rub
Away the outer world
With purrs
One smile bears a second.
Lungs expand,
Inner space expands, there
In the corner of his sky float little birds
Around old oak
Crowns of boasting crows
Call to those below
Adorned in the red green chair.

Greg Thweatt © 2013

(Read poem in its entirity with art work)

You are more than what you expect to be
more than all the fears of others combined
greater than the need to conquer
or fix
or do.
There is no need to win
nor win others who need you.
One job:
wake and open your eyes
do what you can so
you can do the same
tomorrow.
In between be kind,
show up.
No gauge of
big or small.
Be there, just be
there.
If no one else sees it,
over and over and over
please know that
what will shine
is your
soul.

Greg Thweatt © 2013

Four forty seven PM.
Blue hat pulled low.
Zipped to the neck.
Scarf knotted.
Slalom into a boot,
Then the other.
Back stiffened,
Breath deep.
Unlatch the door
Then
Step into
December.

Greg Thweatt © 2013

(Read poem in entirity with artwork at Blogspot)

What is reality
If only what we know
Is but a name.
When that we
Do not understand exists
Just the same.
To shift a molecule
One moment to the left,
Untwist the D and Aid,
Rewrite the tome
Push back the stone … poof!
Marble to marmalade.

Greg Thweatt © 2013

Some listen to instruments
Strings pulling at the past
Dreaming of what was or
Was not.
They sit with mirror,
Hand in chin,
Counting tears and years
While walking down the old road.

One player kneels
Bat in hand
Within a circle green and white
All games flash quickly by
Season to season
Waiting for one last call
The crowd disappears
Walking down the old road.

Madame stands framed
By a window
Staring to the world
Cane and ledge her ballasts
Birds fly, cars trundle, people file by.
Her lovers left
All scent faded
Walking down the old road.

In light the apples dance
Upon the branch
Sweet winds of summer
Lift soft hair
Warm waters smile
Green to yellow
Silver to crimson
While walking down the old road.

Greg Thweatt © 2012

(Read poem in entirity with art work on Blogspot)

Welcome Dearest,
Sit and share.
Why the Heavy Heart?
You wish to Fly?
To lift as the Sun Bird?
Then close your eyes.
Call your Children and say
“Open the box full of
Red and Purple,

(giving flight to intentions in um, er, ah other ways
click HERE to purchase reprints or cards)
Inflate one balloon then another
Each with Intention.”
Gather and Bind,
Thank each Little One
Then breath deep
Hold, hold, hold …
Now, slowly
Let
Go.
It is the Golden Time,
Between day and night.
Float and Smile.
Below little hands Wave,
Above the Moon Bird dances.
Beautiful Soul,
You Are
Light.

Greg Thweatt © 2012

(Read poem in entirity with artwork on Blogspot)

Barking up a tree,
[hmmmmm]
How odd.
Even howl to the moon,
[sigh]
So rare.
Well done, and soon,
[yawn]
Curled nap.

Greg Thweatt © 2012

(Read poem in entirity with art work on Blogspot)

On the Twelfth part
Of the Twelfth month
In the Twelfth year
Do I feel as a
One or a Two?
Should I stand in a Dodecagon?
Is this a day to
Enjoy, emote, express?
Depress, dissolve, dismay?
Or shall I paint
Twelve lines
And call it just
Another day.

Greg Thweatt © 2012

(Read poem in entirity with art work on Blogspot)

Spring, spring, spring!
Days of rain weighted down
By shirt on shirt on shirt
On jacket on shell on and on
And on …

Signs of winter sleeping,
Little buds peak through
Silvery crimson bark
Of apple, plum, and cherry tree.
One week passes to show
First the Pink,
Nature’s ambers glowing
Growing soon to blossoms
White with shades of red and blue.

Walking under canopies
Tangling sight and scent
Darting wings and loping paws
Round trunks, through twig
While tiny pedals cling.

Winter stretches, yawns one
Last time to leave a
Sudden heavy snow,
Competing with the lovely
Trees for light.
Soon to melt, in the wake
Lower branches bend to
Snap!
A painter’s gift.

Lime yellow jar,
Arrangement perched
Up on a wobbly stool
Adorned with cloth of
Jaune and Sunflowers.

To capture
Memory and light
With brush, water, pigment,
Eyes and heart.
Drop and stroke
Pause, ponder, paint.
Then, a great mistake.
Wagging tail darts …
Stool stands no more.

Scattered elements
Upon the floor
Sitting between art and
Mess, each the same.
Creation done.

Greg Thweatt © 2012

Fretting.
Sighs and tight fists.
Waking gray walls.
Worry each moment.
Past and future rule.
Tick, tick, tick.
This is a life?

All of my parts they
Struggle and bark.
Question, question, question!
What are we doing?
Why are we here?
Where are we falling?
Fix, fix, fix.

Pill? Tonic?
Savior? Road map?
Hat full of rabbits?
Better half or
Mediocre quarter?
Anything but me.
More sighs, tighter fists.

Stuck in the past
Looking back … stare, stare, stare
Spin and gaze ahead
Future fears locked.
No movement, still
Dizzy in place.
Stop? Stop? Stop!

What if …
Just stand.
Breath.
Close eyes, gently.
See the air
Hues with bright bubbles.
Warm quiet breeze.

Expand.
Open.
Sing or cry or laugh …
Or tiny prayer.
Little sounds of
Bird, child, tree.
Hear … here.

In a pocket
Keep a small mirror.
Extend it forward
See the past.
Remember
Then with honor
Let it rest.

The horizon is far
This is so.
Wave with each child
Comfort each part
As slowly we go.
One step forward
Wobbly or firm.

The mirror is small.
Horizon’s out there.
Each moment surrounds,
Holds,
Smiles,
Loves,
Here.

Greg Thweatt © 2012

Chin cradled by two hands
elbows rooted to a table,
the floor, the elbows.
Eyes wide, gathering
every word, each note,
dancing to the heart beat.

Hearing hues spun round
thoughts, clinging to feelings
flung through currents.
Lines severed by fears
stitched back with love,
gently knotted and lifted skyward.

Greg Thweatt © 2010

Etched with whispers soft
   Soft on winged grace
      Grace while hurling into hope
         Hope in faith and love
            Love, your love, upon my heart etched.

Greg Thweatt © 2010

Per chance the end of day descends.
On twilight heaviness
Refracts through shuttered
Windows and shadows clattered
In the wake of one such simple
Silhouette, which sits to dine
On hope.

The twirling of the greater cloth
Stitched in veins of
Crimson blessed by breath,
Warmed in passion,
Stocked row on row
With hands gloved in
Gentle truth.

Come sweetness, please
Hold this wanderer.
Stride by sails, tack this course
Run along the shore and
Carry cargo light
With steps that glide to rest
On brighter eyes.

Dash little words in parables
Sweet stories told between soft
Pillows and metered breath
Of valleys, streams and clove red
Fields that fallow deep
All thoughts and plant
One single seed.

Root first intentions.
Exploding into earth of
Blackened fears, such fertile space.
Cast in memory, blocked in stone
Each chisel chipped deep strokes
Revealing first through dust then blood
A work of heart.

Greg Thweatt © 2010

Ten o one
With bitter taste
Cheese and rice
Wool on lace.
Draw back cold sheets,
A bed half made
As ballast shifted
With memories laid
On tiny feet.
Good night, hold tight
Beloved hold
Till next we meet.

Greg Thweatt © 2010

Close your eyes dearest,
Fall inside.
Away from this, the smaller world
Framed by illusions and pain.

Lift oneself.
Gently collect and
Breath into such wonders
Of this, a peaceful place.

Hear the hand gliding
On the skin of glowing skies
Melting into
Trees and grass.

Inhale the wind on wave.
Of diamonds forged by
Sun and water
Split by dolphin’s arches.

Protected by trunk and tusk
Lovingly lifted on giant’s back.
Walking, swaying, supported
Grounded in motion.

Grace elevated on wings.
Feathers shine upon
This fabric below and above
Horizons’ bed.

Each blessing rests deeply
Within soft hands.
This soul, this love
This larger world.

Greg Thweatt © 2010

Thirty six blue
Fifty two white
Grace this sacred
Soul.
Fingers slowly move
Striking each note
With loving
Intention.
Listen to the colors
Glide on the wings
Of the dove.

Cobalt as the
Deep waters that
Submerge all
Senses.
Gold spirals
Curling a bright
Face.
Jade to sapphire
Shine through
Two blessed
Portals.

Gently touch blue
Slide to white.
Kiss one pedal
Then the other.
Feel each movement.
Taste the tremors.
Love composed of
Tender lips with
Hearts bridged whole
From first to last
Breath.

Greg Thweatt © 2009

Sitting, struggling for words
Fingers arched anticipating to work
Back leaning forward
Feet bare and planted to wood
And yet … no words.

Where did they go?
Phrases and rhymes
Here then there.
Nowhere.
No words.

Frustration rises
As strapping the lid
Of a boiling pot.
The eyes turn red
Still … no words.

With curled lip,
Fists hurled to the ceiling
Cursing memory, the presence
And lack of.
Weeping over nothing … no words.

Crumpled to the ground
The body falls.
Fists slowly open and gently
Cup the chin.
Tears well into … no words.

Consonants sliced, vowels
Tangled madly.
Periods fade and commas
Flee leaving only question
Marks and … no words.

Then slowly, as burning
Off an early morning mist
Obscurity spins a simple dance,
Embracing what it is to
See … no words.

It is the story of a life
The openness of each place
To hold and cherish this
And every space
Including … no words.

This gift I offer
Of body, of soul, of wonder.
Streaming sighs,
Breath deep
Into … these words.

Greg Thweatt © 2009

Be soft, be grumpy, be true, be still in light.
Be near my tears, be close when pained.
Be warm, be gentle, beside me.
Be with me, behold my heart.
Beloved.

Greg Thweatt © 2009

Sitting in a big house
alone.
Two dogs and a cat
sleep.
Outside darkness covers
snow.
Inside the television
blurs
extolling the life of a
dancer.
The smell of burnt
fur.
From the fire place falls a
squirrel
racing cross furniture with tail
all ablaze.
People come and
go
bringing wine and
vegetable.
Laughing and smiling with quiet
eyes.
There and not
there.
Alone with no
one.
Alone in a
crowd.

Greg Thweatt © 2009

(watch a video of the poem)

Catch a cockatiel in flight
Or turtle turning in the grass.
Catch the color in a song
Or lyrics in sudden laughter.

Not with your eyes
Or hands.
Not with the lens of cameras
Or pencil, pen or brush.

Catch with blinders securely
Swung around the mind.
Catch with emotions gates
Swung wide, then smash the latch.

Open the box around the heart
With fingers nailed, hammer or knife.
Open the shudders to the soul
With fears and hope inhaling deep.

Catch the current by stepping in
Floating with no resistance.
Catch the light of another’s hand
Floating spirits intermingle.

Breath in all that is
Let pass through all that was
Breath in all that will be
Let the present dance.

Catch a cockatiel in flight
Or turtle turning in the grass.
Catch the color in a song
Or lyrics in sudden laughter.

Greg Thweatt © 2009

When the urge emerge
Sad, angry, spooked
Stuck or depressed
Flailing and ailing.
Paint!

If hands fail, use both feet
If no fingers or toes grab
The brush with gummed teeth.
Paint!

Spray a wall, floor of stall.
Chalk down walkways.
Etch stone.
Paint!

Splatter, flow, merge
Blend, edge, feather and dot.
On wood on paper on cloth
Or the back of a hand.
Paint!

Minerva dance with Apollo!
While Angelico smiles.
No rules or boundaries
In and outside the lines.
Paint!

Splash through water?
Swoosh the hand?
Sweep a stick?
Swirl oils?
Paint!

Pour through smile and tear.
When the urge emerge
Close the eyes
Sing in colors
Paint,
Paint,
Paint!

Greg Thweatt © 2009

A child sits with fingers
Drawing in the sand
Intent on nothing else
Than a little world of grain.
A gentle minder watches
Prepared to give or guide.

And all the while I move
Through life, two worlds
One mine one of my inner child.
How fearful might the picture
Look if not for precious work.
How was it just a blink ago
That all was not this way?

And so I breath.
And so I sit and
Contemplate.
How can we ever stop the
Path our guides prepare and
Pray
To thank the very thought
How wondrous the minutes
Of each and every day so
That I squat
And I will draw
Pictures in the sand.

As water tides pull over me
Then wind and sun that dry
To cleanse in time
These bones
This heart
And soul of mine.
With solace now I give myself
In gentle touch and grace
The work,
This gift
And through it, in it, over it
Intentions settle soft
Upon your warm extended
Hands
To share this gift with you.

Greg Thweatt © 2009

She sat on the swing
   in a pale summer dress.
Bare feet
   bare legs
      painting air
         with her toes.
Brown hair swirled
   round pink petals
      laced by her ear.
Fingers
   embraced the brittle
      strands that
         knotted the swing.
“Push” was the
   word that flowed
      from her lips.
No other request
      or needs she
          required.
With one open
   palm
      on the small of
         her back
            I leaned slightly
               in and
                  Breathed.

Push!

And she flew.

In the wake
   for a moment
      her scent
         replaced new
            mowed grass and
               spring blossoms.
Unfurling her
   knees
      calves
         straightened feet
            neck back
               with the wind.
No child
   was happier
      no fawn leapt
         further
            than she on the
               swing
                  cutting higher
                     then higher.
Gravity’s judge
   stood at her ascent,
       a moment in
          time
             froze the image
                in space.
Pale dress
   hair and limbs
      drew to a
         stop.
All was still
   wind and sound
      save one pedal
         in flight.
Small circles
   tight circles
      the pedal it fell.
Framing
      it’s path
         as it came
            just in reach
               then …
In one
   Breath
       she returned.
The
pedal
was
gone … Push!

Greg Thweatt © 2008

There comes a time when
One must stand or sit
Or dance.
At that moment there is a light
One simple fleeting flash
Of certainty.
As with the time between
Day and night.

Greg Thweatt © 2008

Late this afternoon
           while walking with the dogs
                        through snow and wind
                                    we came across a little furry
                                                mound.

Curled and gray a
            certain site atop the whitened
                        ground.

Both dogs sped by
            with nostrils aimed
                        at what had been.

Now was a possum
            by my feet.

Was it alive or
            playing death or
                        something in between.

I studied with a
            tilted head then
                        gave a gentle nudge.

The curled tail began
            to move.

Despite the sun
            and unwinterlike warmth
                        the possum would not
                                    last with red tails
                                                nesting by the stands
                                                            of birch and maple.

And so I found a simple
            spade and lifting snow
                        with creature
                                    placed the little body
                                                on the planks of a
                                                            covered porch.

The sun streamed low
            with driving winds
                        across this wooden place.

Still little signs of
            greater life sprang from
                        the little soul.

A tail of scale
            and hair.

Paws like hands
            dark blue eyes
                        cropped with drops of
                                    emerald.

The possum did
            not move.

I’ve seen death
            and just before.

I hoped this was
            not the same.

No more could
            I do.

No more could
            I try.

So I sat on a plank
            by the side of
                        a possum
                                    to keep present
                                                and hoped
                                                            that the morning
                                                would show
                                    the porch barren
                        with death
            feigned.

Greg Thweatt © 2008

See a post with the poem

Not the straight and groomed
That interests me today.
Instead, I sit below a tree
Crooked and curving
Leaning and swaying.

The clefts and cracks
From long since broken
Branch and stem
Offer sanctuary and rest
For feather, fur, and scale.

Angled trunks that turn
A differed path
From neighboring trees
That bumped and pressed
And now no longer stand.

Stone in shifting ground
Water pools and streams
Train roots out and shallow
Down and deep.
And so, it goes for me.

Physical and mental trauma
From the past create the
Clefts and cracks that offer
Sanctuary and rest for those
Who love and live.

Past relationships
That bumped and pressed
My angled trunk.
Soiled fears with hardened
Habits form the stuff that
Roots infuse.

Thoughts and feelings stream
Evaporate then return
As hidden life
In cold leafless days
That springs forth then
Shade through draught and
Offer an autumn-colored crown.

There is beauty in short comings
Failures, scars, burs, and tangles.
They define our shape
With all the hardness and
Softness of a tree.

Greg Thweatt © 2008

Sitting,
Thinking.
Dark fireplace
cold brick and wood.
No words, no traffic
deaf cords in place
of music.
Silence.
Slowly memories march.
Mind’s thoughts make
noise.
Joy stripped to
pain.
Swinging, sitting
present at memory’s feet.
Then, with suddenness …
stop.
Alone.
Quiet.
One solitary moment,
one solitary life.
Cold brick and wood
And memory.

Greg Thweatt © 2006