Word-Art Opening


On Ancient Wings
– 1
6″ x 20″ x 1″ – acrylic/mixed media on wood panel

Tonight is the opening of the 4th semi-annual Word-Art show at the Gallery on the Green in Canton, CT.  Once again, I had the honor of working with my dear friend, Karen Jasper, who wrote the poem “Wounded Bird” in response to my painting, “On  Ancient Wings.”  The show runs through April 12, with an evening of readings on Saturday, April 4 at 7:30.


Wounded Bird


Part 1

A swallow can fly miles, from treetop to ocean cliff,
The wind’s undertow buoyantly gliding her
To a resting place warm with possibility.

She is free, lifted higher by duty and family,
Not a thought outside of weather and wind,
Acceptance and choice safely within her span.

But then, jolted in flight,
her heart pumped deep
And she is transformed,

The unknown and unfamiliar
In that very moment,
A broken wing reclaiming

Something lost and ancient
Spiraling deep and desperate
Into the habitat of hidden.

Some species heal their wings
In solitude, licking and lying
In a nest of thin twigs

Healing from within
Until they can fly again,
To and from home.

But other species do not heal
And they tuck that wing
Underneath themselves,

Landlocked and less,
The natural order
Injured inside and out.

That species will push on
Practicing, praying, pretending
That wings are but a crutch;

Meanwhile hoping that reverse gravity
May rocket them up and open them wide,
Heedfully whole to fly again.

Part 2 (My Side)

 I fly from necessity

Hovering over leafy trees and endless water,

Following an inestimable path from home

Only to return again,

Where I’ll find my roots and rhythm

Deeply tucked in grainy sand.

I do not question why I do this–

This destiny of family and fate–

What I cannot fathom I will not change.

My twelve feather tail and meager wing span

Weigh in below two ounces,

 Not enough for my survival

And yet I maneuver and endure,

I doggedly sing my song

And tuck my broken wing

Under my expanding and rapid chest

Until I know if

I might fly again.

If I should die here

Unable to lift myself beyond this place

I will fly anyway

Straight to this indomitable future

Where I will be an African River Martin

tending and fending

Reaching still and always,

Weightless in my belief

That I was born for just this moment.

– Karen Jasper

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