In Thessaloniki or
in Thebes, in Athens or
in Boonton,
his soul
turned
on the simple
axis of finding the
chrysalis of Alexander
discarded on the
sun baked soil
of whatever land
upon which he
stood;
in all the
places his heart
strove to know
as home.
A chance
to hold freedom
in the bristles
of his brush;
the enveloping
passion of a sunset
in the center of
a wondering glance.
Alexander was a
dwelling of
character and
desire –
a way to move
through life;
adding the
subtle strokes
of dignity and
repose;
a toiling dispersed
among the fragrance of
a gentle and metered
growth.
There is a flower
in the shade of the windmill.
Art
was not just
in his pores;
his pores
were
art.
Meaning built
and crafted into
the endless struggle
toward beauty,
toward making things
whole.
Leaning into
that sense that
lay hidden just
beyond the seascape
and the meadow –
held still in
his place
by the redness
of a flower,
the foam on
a wave.
Lost.
Calling from deep
to the recesses of
the deeper deep –
escaping every lineament
with every exhalation.
He created what
we came to
know as true; he
painted what we
learned to feel
as hope.
What freedoms
can a man paint
when every day
you greet the sun,
when every moment
you are clinging
like the vine –
longing for the
day of return.
Alexander,
always Alexander, under
each sun dried
sprig of chamomile
bent in the harshness
of the wind;
in each rock
that is broken
open in the
light of day.
There is no more
fear, no more worship,
no more expression or
speech, there is no
more want – only
the essence of
the man and all
he found to cling to
in the disparate days
of bringing all things
together.
Always together.
A softness
in the face of dying,
a hand to unite
a friend
to someone he has
never known before,
this is how moved
upon the surface
of this life he painted
with impressions
of resilience and
regard.
Calling from deep
to the recesses of
the deeper deep –
escaping every lineament
with every exhalation.
He created what
we came to
know as true; he
painted what we
learned to feel
as hope.
What freedoms
can a man paint
when every day
you greet the sun,
when every moment
you are clinging
like the vine –
longing for the
day of return.
We yearn for
those freedoms.
We know to greet
that sun.
We cling to that
longing –
for that day
of return.
Because
you
showed
us
how.
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