"Falmouth" Painting by DJ Marshall ALL Images & Text
copyrighted 2013
"The Other Side of No Where"
One can reach the other side of no where quite
easily. Cross a bridge, without thought as to how long
it is, or where it ends, or even what one will do once
they have.
Walking in circles, - - - another way to reach the
destination. Ending a relationship with one person,
only to start another, with one who has the same
psyche and motivations. Trading one problem for
another is oh so easy to do.
Forging one's way around a marsh pond in
Falmouth, so as to have a better angle for canvas
and brush - - - is yet one more method. However,
new angles are formed in the mind, more easily than
any other way.
Perhaps, that's why the geese stay in the middle, as they try to make their hay? And, - - - real opportunities
are so few and far between, on any given day.
by DJ Marshall
copyrighted 2013
"The Other Side of No Where"
One can reach the other side of no where quite
easily. Cross a bridge, without thought as to how long
it is, or where it ends, or even what one will do once
they have.
Walking in circles, - - - another way to reach the
destination. Ending a relationship with one person,
only to start another, with one who has the same
psyche and motivations. Trading one problem for
another is oh so easy to do.
Forging one's way around a marsh pond in
Falmouth, so as to have a better angle for canvas
and brush - - - is yet one more method. However,
new angles are formed in the mind, more easily than
any other way.
Perhaps, that's why the geese stay in the middle, as they try to make their hay? And, - - - real opportunities
are so few and far between, on any given day.
by DJ Marshall
"Becket, Ma, Berkshires" Painting by DJ Marshall
"Berkshires Draw Crowds"
The hills rose higher in progression, as one pushed on
through them to be in the middle of what they had to offer.
The next higher than the one before, with less of a chance
of meeting someone's bad attitude. - - - From Westfield, to
Chester, to Becket, they became less rude. A church spire
poked its steeple up through the trees, and as it was Fall, it
seemed like the perfect place to paint some leaves.
Thoughts of a movie about Stockbridge ran through his
head. The church was not for sale, and there was no sign of
Alice, so those thoughts soon were dead. A house with a sign,
"For Rent", led him to his next home and bed. In no time,
the area ran out of intrigue for his head. Many from the
city - - - came to listen to music instead.
It was as if the sound of rushing streams could be
improved, by many blowing into twisted brass tubes.
There was such dread. Lennox, and its concerts, pushed
him onward to find the next new place, where he could
feed his mind, - - - and where there at least seemed to be
more souls which could not so easily be led.
by DJ Marshall
"Berkshires Draw Crowds"
The hills rose higher in progression, as one pushed on
through them to be in the middle of what they had to offer.
The next higher than the one before, with less of a chance
of meeting someone's bad attitude. - - - From Westfield, to
Chester, to Becket, they became less rude. A church spire
poked its steeple up through the trees, and as it was Fall, it
seemed like the perfect place to paint some leaves.
Thoughts of a movie about Stockbridge ran through his
head. The church was not for sale, and there was no sign of
Alice, so those thoughts soon were dead. A house with a sign,
"For Rent", led him to his next home and bed. In no time,
the area ran out of intrigue for his head. Many from the
city - - - came to listen to music instead.
It was as if the sound of rushing streams could be
improved, by many blowing into twisted brass tubes.
There was such dread. Lennox, and its concerts, pushed
him onward to find the next new place, where he could
feed his mind, - - - and where there at least seemed to be
more souls which could not so easily be led.
by DJ Marshall
"Squam River Bridge, NH" Painting by DJ Marshall
"There Once Was, . . . A Bear"
A bear that would not share. It wasn't that the bear
could not, he would not. A mere dictate of the thought of what the next generation had wrought.
For sure not his streams, teaming with salmon. A two
legged foe came to the water with pole. The bear's food he
had stole. Claws and teeth did shine, and a forty four put
the whole bear deep in the brine.
The bear was no longer there, . . . and the fish were fished
out without so much as a whine. Farms and mills grew so
large, . . . the stream could not hold even one more barge.
Nature surrendered and all was still. There was nothing
left to share, even for a bear. All had such lament, . . . for
even if there was, - - - who would dare?
by DJ Marshall
"There Once Was, . . . A Bear"
A bear that would not share. It wasn't that the bear
could not, he would not. A mere dictate of the thought of what the next generation had wrought.
For sure not his streams, teaming with salmon. A two
legged foe came to the water with pole. The bear's food he
had stole. Claws and teeth did shine, and a forty four put
the whole bear deep in the brine.
The bear was no longer there, . . . and the fish were fished
out without so much as a whine. Farms and mills grew so
large, . . . the stream could not hold even one more barge.
Nature surrendered and all was still. There was nothing
left to share, even for a bear. All had such lament, . . . for
even if there was, - - - who would dare?
by DJ Marshall
"Litchfield Swamp" Painting by DJ Marshall
" - - - Which Way To Turn?"
Wooded winding paths unwound. More sunlight was
allowed to filter through the canopy above, as each step glided forward. Various birds of apathy took to flight with
fright, in all directions, ahead of the advancing footsteps.
A worn walkway through the leaves, raised above water
on carefully placed planks - - - bridging the world of solid earth, on into the ever changing, and life giving environs
of marsh and swamp.
Thousands of eyes, both warm and cold blooded, wondered if a meal was coming, or if they were to be a next meal. Mosquitoes, lizards, flesh eating insects, all predators and prey in the same instant of time, wondered, as did I,
which way to turn as the planked walkway forked off in
two directions.
- - - It did not matter which direction one took, for it was
all new, and ever changing. There would be no feeling of
remorse. One could not make a wrong choice, for there was
no way to know what lay on the plank way not taken. Nor,
would there ever be. In so being, it was the perfect place
to now see.
by DJ Marshall
" - - - Which Way To Turn?"
Wooded winding paths unwound. More sunlight was
allowed to filter through the canopy above, as each step glided forward. Various birds of apathy took to flight with
fright, in all directions, ahead of the advancing footsteps.
A worn walkway through the leaves, raised above water
on carefully placed planks - - - bridging the world of solid earth, on into the ever changing, and life giving environs
of marsh and swamp.
Thousands of eyes, both warm and cold blooded, wondered if a meal was coming, or if they were to be a next meal. Mosquitoes, lizards, flesh eating insects, all predators and prey in the same instant of time, wondered, as did I,
which way to turn as the planked walkway forked off in
two directions.
- - - It did not matter which direction one took, for it was
all new, and ever changing. There would be no feeling of
remorse. One could not make a wrong choice, for there was
no way to know what lay on the plank way not taken. Nor,
would there ever be. In so being, it was the perfect place
to now see.
by DJ Marshall
"Litchfield, CT" Painting by DJ Marshall
"Hills, Slopes, & Summits"
Rising slopes formed the summits of hills, driven by the
personal aspirations of all. So many, with alluring purpose,. . .
though one life did not contain enough time to scale them all.
At times it was enough to simply see, - - - the endless vista of
hills created by the many. Ever so desperately, all tried to cling
to the steep slopes, in an attempt to maintain what they had.
Even if it was, simply, just plain bad.
He started to slide, . . . finger nails digging into the incline of
his hill. Many around him, too, were slipping. Pushed by the
policies of ignorant, greedy, sociopaths. The result of their greed,
was their own demise, as their own hills began to erode. There
wasn't enough for anyone to continue paying for their abode.
However, resulting desolation allowed him to see more clearly,
as he slid. What he was clinging to was not worth the effort at all.
Releasing his cling allowed him to blaze a new trail, . . . on a hill,
that was still just a hazy sight in the imagination of his mind. As
the pathway took shape, there was no longer the need for fight,
flight, nor fright.
by DJ Marshall
"Hills, Slopes, & Summits"
Rising slopes formed the summits of hills, driven by the
personal aspirations of all. So many, with alluring purpose,. . .
though one life did not contain enough time to scale them all.
At times it was enough to simply see, - - - the endless vista of
hills created by the many. Ever so desperately, all tried to cling
to the steep slopes, in an attempt to maintain what they had.
Even if it was, simply, just plain bad.
He started to slide, . . . finger nails digging into the incline of
his hill. Many around him, too, were slipping. Pushed by the
policies of ignorant, greedy, sociopaths. The result of their greed,
was their own demise, as their own hills began to erode. There
wasn't enough for anyone to continue paying for their abode.
However, resulting desolation allowed him to see more clearly,
as he slid. What he was clinging to was not worth the effort at all.
Releasing his cling allowed him to blaze a new trail, . . . on a hill,
that was still just a hazy sight in the imagination of his mind. As
the pathway took shape, there was no longer the need for fight,
flight, nor fright.
by DJ Marshall
"Litchfield Hills" Painting by DJ Marshall
" A Tree, . . . Too Busy To See"
There were so many, and rarely, if ever, were they
truly seen, - - - as entities singularly, as well as being
interdependent. There was an eternal importance and
need for the many.
The masses flow down byways, that have tarred over such a plethora of places. Places where the roots of the
future might have found anchors to flourish.
Lost to the flora and fauna are the branches rising
toward the sun, . . . providing almost endless pathways
to success, to explore, and toward peace of mind. Its
gone, gone though not forgotten.
by DJ Marshall
" A Tree, . . . Too Busy To See"
There were so many, and rarely, if ever, were they
truly seen, - - - as entities singularly, as well as being
interdependent. There was an eternal importance and
need for the many.
The masses flow down byways, that have tarred over such a plethora of places. Places where the roots of the
future might have found anchors to flourish.
Lost to the flora and fauna are the branches rising
toward the sun, . . . providing almost endless pathways
to success, to explore, and toward peace of mind. Its
gone, gone though not forgotten.
by DJ Marshall
"A Kettle Pond In Fall" Painting by DJ Marshall
"WAITING, . . ."
Waiting for boxes to arrive, one more time, or for the
last time? So many times, through the years, flat new boxes in a bundle, were sent, and impatiently waited for.
Simply, to be filled with the same old things, . . . which
other new boxes had been filled with so many times before.
The anticipation of new boxes brought forth expectations of all sorts of new experiences, while burying current dilemmas, and the reality of the place, perceived by those who constantly chose to stay in place. One would, soon, no longer be required to look at so many in the face, which had done nothing but bring the human race such disgrace - - - at least those that had resided in this given
place.
There was the love of a few he wished to pack, if only
he could find the space. However, it would only restrict
and bind the attempts of exploration in the new place. The
new place which he had already decided to bring and give
fully of his state of grace.
Boxes, were being shipped to his door, so they could be
filled and re-shipped, one more time, to another door .
A new door which would allow him to continue to explore
- - - one like the many he had walked through before.
Would this one be the last time? - - - If so, it would still be
adored, as the necessary last step in turning his page
fully toward the sublime.
by DJ Marshall
"WAITING, . . ."
Waiting for boxes to arrive, one more time, or for the
last time? So many times, through the years, flat new boxes in a bundle, were sent, and impatiently waited for.
Simply, to be filled with the same old things, . . . which
other new boxes had been filled with so many times before.
The anticipation of new boxes brought forth expectations of all sorts of new experiences, while burying current dilemmas, and the reality of the place, perceived by those who constantly chose to stay in place. One would, soon, no longer be required to look at so many in the face, which had done nothing but bring the human race such disgrace - - - at least those that had resided in this given
place.
There was the love of a few he wished to pack, if only
he could find the space. However, it would only restrict
and bind the attempts of exploration in the new place. The
new place which he had already decided to bring and give
fully of his state of grace.
Boxes, were being shipped to his door, so they could be
filled and re-shipped, one more time, to another door .
A new door which would allow him to continue to explore
- - - one like the many he had walked through before.
Would this one be the last time? - - - If so, it would still be
adored, as the necessary last step in turning his page
fully toward the sublime.
by DJ Marshall
"My Kind Of Cat" Painting by DJ Marshall
"Almost "60" "
Most things of undying importance now seem to be gone.
Gone, ... Gone where?
What, ... just what was it,---that had made life worthwhile?
*Friends?,...no it wasn't friends.
With time, most proved not to be, others were stolen by
wives, children, and careers.
*Family?,...no it wasn't family.
Childhood squabbles were just the pretense for the
deception to follow, and Mother, with Father, have long since passed.
* A status symbol vehicle,...?
It couldn't possibly have been that, as with age, driving
is less and less enjoyable.
* Fancy real estate and money as well,...?
The first brings never ending chores, ... the second, one
needs to be on guard for thieves,... it seems everyone
becomes one.
* Alas, ... with no one to gloat over, or
simply envy, admire, or emulate, all things in life become
meaningless. One is left with the question, which first came
to mind at age 14. What's the point?, only with a stronger
feeling in the asking.
by DJ Marshall
"You Get My Goats" Painting by DJ Marshall
" An Ode To Mother, . . ."
In frustration, "You get my goat!", she used to say,
. . . it was meant to admonish her son for his consistent
indiscretions. Each time he, . . . I, heard the phrase, I
became quite amused. There was teasing to the fact,...
that I didn't see any goats. After a while, smiles came to both faces, - - - the old saying was never forgotten.
Years later, when Mother was passing away, from her bed, she whispered to me,
" When you visit my grave, know that I will not be there. I'll be in the breeze, on the tops of the trees, where ever it is that you might be."
With the painting just finished, I held it up high, on
that bright breezy day. The swaying tops of the trees were
almost smiling, and oh so pleasing to me. Innately,
knowing that mother smiled too, made me feel that a
whole life long of painting was what I had been meant
to do. Having allowed so many feelings, to float on
the breeze so freely.
by DJ Marshall
All Images And Text Copyrighted 2013
" An Ode To Mother, . . ."
In frustration, "You get my goat!", she used to say,
. . . it was meant to admonish her son for his consistent
indiscretions. Each time he, . . . I, heard the phrase, I
became quite amused. There was teasing to the fact,...
that I didn't see any goats. After a while, smiles came to both faces, - - - the old saying was never forgotten.
Years later, when Mother was passing away, from her bed, she whispered to me,
" When you visit my grave, know that I will not be there. I'll be in the breeze, on the tops of the trees, where ever it is that you might be."
With the painting just finished, I held it up high, on
that bright breezy day. The swaying tops of the trees were
almost smiling, and oh so pleasing to me. Innately,
knowing that mother smiled too, made me feel that a
whole life long of painting was what I had been meant
to do. Having allowed so many feelings, to float on
the breeze so freely.
by DJ Marshall
All Images And Text Copyrighted 2013
