On the Wall

Take the time to look–
A momentary glimpse prolonged
May not expand the universe
But that image, sugar cubed,
Will dissolve
And leave a taste

Maybe it will seem just another pretty picture
Or maybe, the framed piece
You’d been missing
For so long.

The following pen and ink drawings may or may not better illustrate my point of view on art.

Hope you’ll take a few moments, or come by later, when you have more time.
All poems and drawings inside this blog: ©CAReilly/2013


moondancer india ink on linen

india ink on linen

Shadow Ship

Shadow Ship

Room for a View

Room for a View

Mountain Muse rapid-o-graph on Mylar

Mountain Muse
rapid-o-graph on Mylar

the Midnight Ride from: Cards Kids Can Color (tm) Series I

the Midnight Ride
from: Cards Kids Can Color ™ Series I

Sea Memory  (copyrightCAReilly/2013) Moonlight Studio Art Cards and Prints

Sea Memory
(copyrightCAReilly/2013) Moonlight Studio Art Cards and Prints

Moonrise (copyright CAReilly/2013 Moonlight Studio Art )

(copyright CAReilly/2013
Moonlight Studio Art )

Is That Me?

Is That Me?


Furthering Farther

Walking along the shore that day
We saw the child squat
Amidst a mine of precious
Sanded stones
Fingers grasping
Beyond his small arm stretch
He captured a glowing gem
Thrusting it greedily
Into his clear glad bag
And the one next to that seemed just as fine
Wet backs polished by sun’s light
If not even more beautiful—
No single rock
Ignored, or cast aside;
He had struck gold
On this California outing
Not even halfway to the first
Lifeguard tower.

His mother and father paused
From a faster pace, looked back
Called him: Come on,
Let’s collect some more
There are lots of pretty shells
Farther down the beach
Look! Let’s go!
But the boy set his rump
And reaching out
Found what I could see—
Even from where we stood—
As he hurled his offering to the sea
It was the most shiniest rock

You don’t need to search too far down the shore, for everything you need is here in front of you.
As for word play: further—farther—now there is a rhyme to take up coffee time.
We carry things farther, look into things further. We may further our cause by use of gentle manner, but wonder if we can carry that burden any farther. CAR



Buddha hood

Thoughts on the subject:

Everyone knows I did not make up that title, and even Toni Morrison, who did, didn’t either.

What’s old is new. To finding. My own old poem goes like this:


Today I encountered the Buddha,

Just past or just before,

Depending upon which way you go

Whichever saloon

Opens doors in early hours

She sat on the cinder block partition

Between the window and the walk

Waiting for me to notice her

Or not, depending on how you look at it.

Her stomach was softly round, like mine

A little bigger, perhaps we’re the same age

I think her days have been much fuller

Her letters to the world, not so trite

The same poem rings

Across America, the color of the writing

Depends upon, I guess, the chance crayon

Someone found lying on the ground?

I’ve long pondered street calligraphy:

An artist’s tools don’t come cheap

So, by habit, one I’ve given up

Dramatically—this is My Last Day—

I stopped to buy my drink of choice.

One glance foretold I’d order

One for her, and one for me

Add crumb cake, if it looked fresh

I’ve been wondering why

I’ve had this daily craving, and it’s not natural—

Now I know. Today I found her.

This person wore decent clothes

For October in (southerly) California

Lucky her, lucky me

We don’t need that extra sweater

But there she was, this cool morning

I suddenly felt hungry, hadn’t I eaten?

For I keep plenty of food at home—

(Lately, I’ve been aiming

A simple request

Toward my mind—

Give food a rest, just let me be

Alone, without, for a while.)

And I’ve found a certain satisfaction


Delight, really, in not eating

And the thoughts that float across my vision

Seem more like pure white wine—

Old connotation, since I no longer partake

(and that avid vow reveals my truer story)

it’s the color I’m thinking, gold bubbles rising lightly

the way grape gleams through the curvature

of the dew-struck glass—

Transparency is what I’m after.

Coffee is brown mud, bad for the stomach

A substitute pleasure

For childhood days, when

Hot chocolate stirred our deepest imagination

And marshmallows sweetened the simple treat

Today, in Buddha land

We form a friendly line

And pretend to be adult

And ask for yes-leave-room-for-cream

Or better yet, squirt whip on top

Add nutmeg, press on a lid, Pretty isn’t it,

The way the plastic molds the foam

Into a crystal egg shaped sculpture?

Tummy growling,

I walked back out

With two steaming paper cups

And a cinnamon roll

Melting the matching bag.

And saw her, waiting still

Sharing Dawn with the Street

And emptiness

And me.

Someone else had been before—

Nothing new, to my idea—

And had chosen a grander size

The cup graced the concrete table

I smiled at her when I apologized,

But she reassured my intent

It’s okay I’ll have some more,”

As I went ahead and placed it down

And handed her the sugar packet

I added milk already,” my explanation—

She knew as well as I

Most don’t drink it straight up.

Thank you, “ hers a dreamy voice

one that learns to speak

not hearing others

But she looked me full in the eye

And straight, but crinkled

And smiled at me

When my fingers touched her golden

Sunlit cheek.

Politely, she held back

Until I stepped away

From opening the warm gooey sack—

Had she’d noticed I didn’t have one?

I guess all California was awake by then.

I hope so

So they wouldn’t miss anything

That might be happening


Poet’s note:

The beans they grind Here must be better than anything sold from roadside stands There. In places where they don’t print inspirational poems on waxed serving ware. Or string teabag messages inside colorful boxes. I wonder how those people learn to ponder the one true path without such instructive labels. Resting after picking leaves or berries, Do they simply ask for this help with recyclable prayers? CAR 2007


a word on the subject

Of Dragons!

Like the forest iris under a saffron dawn

a first flight  kite, a full bowl of rice,

Or a little brother running over your best-ever painting

as it dried, unsigned, on the front walk,

these beasts come and go.

Sometimes, so fast you barely get singed.

Other times,

Great ancient creatures, they burn through dreams:

Desire, Death, Light and Shadow, Love,

An almost-rhymed rap from that boy you just met

Sorrow, Imagination, Rebirth, that gray lady on the corner,

the one with the cart and five bags of bulging Somethin!

and her crayoned anything helps, blesssya badge

Who is to say which of these wise beings

finds it fun to fly straight into the sun?

I mean,when it is pouring down rain.

Laugh. Today is–Different, anyway, right?

I hope that you will relish it as much as I

Relish the subject of wild and dragons.  drg[1]


If I didn’t tell you

That the chimes rang true and clear

Under this blue sky


How would you ever get to hear them?         chime[1]


Even an elephant has to find a comfortable spot to sit when he or she begins to write the rough draft.

Reflection in the rearview mirror


riding backseat—Sunset Blvd. L.A.

I got to daydreaming—about—


Being as I am of light skin, I don rain gear

even when wandering

along some pebble shore, or near a rock led river.

Exposed, I would die of rough air.

I’m not complaining of this heat

I love the sun—to a certain degree

My discomfort doesn’t compare

to that (one’s) strife;

existing in eternal night

impervious to flame, it makes the day

for all the others;

Besides, I’ve not seen a tear

betray self pity, unless—the sea

fools most poets—

But so alone! some may argue

none dare look long or touch its face,

worship only from a frozen distance.

Across the silent divide of time

sisterstars beckon—

their winds a whisper

I wonder—if our sun longs to talk

with another of like mind

and whether their conversation

might mention real life or dreams

Or does she indeed desire

to become something better than herself

like a mighty blank stone mountain

awaiting inscription,

in solitude listening,

trying—as much a molten being can—

just to understand?


Miracles do take place. But how many of us ever thought we might just be needing one?


Poetry is Free


            A place a time


a wish to be free                         Image


sometimes calls


like a draft sweeps unasked


underneath the door.




What I want to find is me.


There must be a way over that rainbow


something blinds my soulful eyes


stumbles my feet. So I turn back or


away. Do you know that kind of flight?       




My Mystic who once felt true


as if that person is different


now visits only at night


like a vision, dreams




an eventide dance


as moon rises






the clouds gather us


up streaming toward firststar


gliding down waves of oceansky


no horizon


how we fly


just she and I!       Image




Glitter wings follow the breeze


we seek again the possible


yeah I am ready


for what I need to find is me.      Image




The where might just be near


the when, oh so


like the wind, invisible


understand?                              Image




A wish to be free


to find


a place a time


a way of being


inside the solitude of joy or wonder


seems to ask an extra pair of handsImage




Or maybe it means…


just letting goImage








another question, another poem by colleen