QUOTE, 12X14, acrylic on canvas, Angus Macpherson

Haunted dreams pass,

in a breeze.

The new, the American pastime, I reach high in center field -

I cannot open my eyes, but take a chance and hold my glove

in the right place. The ball is caught.

And then, also just by chance, the ball falls out of my glove and

 on my cap – balancing.

I must not move.  How much time?

I mean I caught the ball.  The ball is rolling off my head.

As it drops again I catch it in my glove.

It is morning.

The sunset poem

rode across the high desert

to the volcano stump.

The guy on the radio – the likable one,

the best of my generation, the idealist,

playing the world beat, and rock & roll -

he died last week.

Too young,

whatever his age.

Echoing in my head.

The poem erupted.

You can climb the volcano stump -

 a million years of erosion.

Just before the top, a small cave -

you can feel and smell moist air

from the middle of the earth.

LIGHTNIING STITCH, Angus Macpherson, 72 x 80, acrylic on canvas

The night painted quarter,
of a three-quarter moon.

A snow covered thought,
on a summer afternoon.

A blind person,
who is granted his sight.
On the other side
of darkness,
I swear there is light.

MASK, 12X9 inches, mixed media
Angus Macpherson