The first time I saw Rye Tippett’s paintings it was at a gallery I didn’t mean to visit. I don’t remember why we were in the town. I don’t remember why we visited the gallery. But I do remember the paintings. Beautiful and dreamlike, with a strange, strangely familiar light. A dark-edged glow — twilight, dream light, storm light. The paintings are deceptively centered but with a rack-focus that makes you question the way you view the painting and the way you view the world. It’s like seeing someone (or something) else’s dream of your own memories. His poetry has that same familiarly strange glow. There’s something in the poetry that feels cast off and yet meant to be. Rooted in the rusty earth and stretching to the strange light in the sky. The weight and lightness of memory. We are beyond honored to share these words and pictures.

Sleepy time

Feeling of a
Papoose
On the backs of
Childhood dogs
Staring at the stars
And the blue
Moon
Over the frost
And deep in the
Night
Hearing the yip
Of wolfs
That want anything
But me
Along snow drifts
Dark on the hill
Like the feeling of putting on
Your mothers gloves
Warm roomy wool
On tiny hands
At the beginning of love.
◦

Death is a silver wolf

He came tonight
Rubbing his ribs
On the back of my head
Warm with his belly full
Of venison
You were hugging
The wood stove
Drunk
And away.
I laid you down .
It feels like
I am talking under water .
Outside the belt of Orion
Far away in the cold blur
Rabbits hide under frozen
Leaves
Sometimes
We are children
That
Christmas
Forgot.

the hum

It could be just
The fan
An old lightbulb
Over the stove
The furnace
Late
In that winter
Or the
Microwave
Leftovers
2am.
The engine
Under your
Head
In that 67 beetle
After ice cream .
A train
Far away in the night sky
With the cricket noise
All around
The diesel trucks
Tires on the road
Past the school house
With the lights
Across the walls
Blue
And halogen .
A generator
On the fairground
After everyone has gone
Home
Moths spinning
Everywhere
Or your mothers ear
On you fathers
Chest
As he
Says
Goodbye.

The lightships

Brothers without childhood
Women without men
We have all seen the sunset
Alone
Can we have toast
Without blood
Afraid of the cold harbors
We push on
Till dawn
And maybe
The worn sheets
Of late
Morning .
Bump
Bump
Bump
A dogs
Tail on
The
Door.

Horse shoe

The yellow 100 watt bulb
over the ping pong
Table
Outside under those tall
Summer trees
Or the softball beers
Frisbee in the grass
This one glows in the dark!
Early spring kites
Arm wrestling
For Newport’s
How much Tobacco
Can you fit in yer
Lip
Than maybe driving
Buckets of stolen
Golf balls
Into the
Woods.
Darts
Flip it over
Let’s play baseball
I can run faster
Than you can
Backwards
Let’s jump bikes
Stack up four
Cinder blocks
And hit it
With the
Huffy
Just wearing cut offs
And socks.
Later that night after supper
And the kids
Went to
Bed
In those
Clay pits
I saw
It was
A ringer
-June 1988
Hunterdon county
New Jersey
08822.

Fair ground

On the midway
We held hands
Popped balloons
And kept our winnings
Close
Giant blue bears
And pink floppy
Elephants
Hovered above
Summer track dust
1000 yellow bulbs
Above our heads
Tractors
And washed prize
Animals
All Along the midsummer
Steam
Funnel cake
And beer gardens
Dusty shoes
Then the worlds
Largest Horse
Bumper cars
Carousel
But now I know
You never loved
The fairest
Wheel.

House on the edge of summer

The grass
It’s high
You need to mow it
Ants pissing
Up and down the walls
Stealing
Cat food
Or dog
Food
That toast
That was on the counter
For 5
Minutes
Covered
Hey they
We’re here
First.
We need
Money
Tons of it
And every one
Hates their
Job
So good
Luck.
The drains
Are always clogged
And shit just
Breaks
Cars
Toilets
Lawn mowers
Refrigerators
Patio furniture
Sobriety
Meow
Meow
My belly is full of worms
I eat rats
Bark bark bark
I’m blind
And bite delivery
Men
I farted
And got
A bill
From the gas company
The floor
Is worn
Out
And so
Is the ceiling
Dreams will do that
The fans still spin
For now
It will be
Christmas
Soon.
Oh
Turn
Out
That
Fucking
Light..

Here or there

He was no longer
He or she
Her or him
Them or they
It was a place.
In long shadow
So tall
Among those
Ancient
Trees
Filled with
Candles
And bells
That never
Made noise
Except
For the
Sound
Of water.
In
Sunset
Long
Hallways
In the middle
Of the long
Tower
Laid a
Tiny
Buddha
Smaller
Than
A
Match box
Laying on
It’s side
It wasn’t
Him
Though
Just a tiny
Statue
Filled
With
Wishes.
◦

Bardo

They all have done it
From
George Washington
To
Bob Denver
All my dogs
And most
Of my cats
My old man
And all my grand parents
Being scared
Happy
Angry
Positive
Joyful
Ready for it
Wanting it
To happen
Melancholy
Drunk
Sober
Vegan
Non smoker
Yogi
Piles and piles
Of money
Doesn’t change
A good damn thing
It’s gonna
Happen.

Boys and women

I found a baby in the woods
Skinny thing
I brought him home
Fed him
Chickens
All of them
Bone broth with carrots
Green tomatoes
Sirloin steaks the size of a door
And butter
Lots of butter
Milk
Until he looked a lot like me
Ears nose and hair
And he drank beer
A lot of beer
Most of what anyone could afford
He was just a baby
I found in the woods
We were in
The hollow
Where the
creek would flood
When we met his mother
Her hair was on fire
Looking like black sticks
And bent cable
That had just been struck by lightning
Red lips and laughs
As she told us
To go back to town
Where we belong
So she could
Dig in the mud
For kittens.
Like mopey
Children we turned our backs
Waiting
For birth.

Shackles

We can all
See it now
The sunrise
Or it setting
On the beach
Or mountains
Desert horizons
Finding
That place
Where we relax
From
Days
In the spin
However
The phone
Still rings
And we need
Gas
Just pull over
I found a twenty
In my coat
Did you call the guy
Did you make the date
It should be okay
I have medicine
Now
Go shopping
Everything
Will be like they said
In school
Work for
Tomorrow
And
Dream
In a
Good sleep.

Early spring night

I wish there was
A sailboat
Outside
In the
Trees
A bright warm
Fire
To
Lead the way
Don’t you?
Sparking
Upward
In the shadows
Of the sails
And branches
Where the
Woodpeckers
Sleep
In front of the moon
Golden like an ancient
Stage
We will sing
With silver
Halos of moths
Around our
Heads.
And say
Goodbye
To the
Winter.

Dead hand tools

We make little
Around the camp fire
Now
Maybe
A switch
To beat
Forgotten
Youthful
Insolence
Or fucked up
Drunken
Hot dogs.
Can you make
A handle
For an axe
Or a
Hammer
Hoe
Or a shovel ?
I can.
Steel and iron
Are only moved by
Flesh.
Hickory
Oak
And Ash
They are your
Fathers .
Dig
Softy
The mother
Is only
A few inches
Beneath
Us.

Fred Rogers

As a kid
You were an alien
I didn’t ever see
Someone like you
You took your shoes
Off
When you came home
And put on vans or keds
Jacket came off also
And replaced with a cardigan
I thought …..
Where the fuck is this?
Who’s this dude?
Everybody I knew
Was dirty
Covered in grease
Or tar
Or cow shit
And you would sing
And feed fish
And you never
Punched anybody in the face
Never yelled about
Anything
But
You were on
TV
and I was
In a shack.
Thinking
You were
Wrong
I was a dumb
Kid
And you were
The light.

Shitty parents /shitty kids

Mother Earth
She’s just a girl
Young
She let her
Kids run
Wild
The smart ones
Who were also the dumb ones
Burnt stuff
A lot of stuff
They killed the sweet
Simple kids
That love only
Grass
And also
The big kids with claws
Kids
All of them just dumb
Also the big ones
That can shout under
Water
I think they are called whales
They also killed each other
Because of skin color
Or who they
Loved
Or even if they had different hats
Killed killed killed
All
Of them
Forever
And ever
Tanks
Battleships
Flame throwers
Knives of all kinds
Even Swiss army
Put holes in stuff
And made them
Carbon again
And poop
Yes poop
So you can have a
Pillow
And a fridge
And shower curtains
Clip your nails
In the morning
Over coffee
While the father of all
Things
Great and small
Just
Sits on a cloud
And
Watches
What a show!
I wouldn’t
Turn it off
Either
Babies.

Brackish

A cool brown
Afternoon
The banks
And dim lit
Beaches
The smell
Of cedar
And dry sand
Under bare feet
Sweaty from
Flip flop
Miles
To the liquor store
A nap on
Now grey
Sheets
Then waking
With that feeling
Of a fever
And
A loved one
Touching
Your head
Saying
It’s alright
Its alright.
It’s just age
Or the ghost
Of my first
Dog.

John & Peters

It’s a radio
The best one
Always on,
Always.
Like the one
From when
You were
A kid
It’s filled with folks
And voices
And more love
And tragedy
Than one single brain
Could ever remember
A glimpse
Of the magic
Of the 60s
70s
Ghosts
That have only
Been captured
On
Polaroid .

Out the school house window

I saw her
Out in the garden
Cutting flowers for arrangements
Large men’s shorts
And big garden clogs
Surrounded
By the breathing
Green
Like a bird
In a Max Ernst
Painting
Fragile
And strange
Yet made of iron
Not of
This
Earth.

There is no giving tree

A gun in a box
The knife in the drawer
Or the ropes on a shelf
Knots
Away,
Where the kids won’t see
Secret beatings
Against the wood stove
Growing up
Waiting for laughter
A cat
Will always
Kill the smallest
Bird
For
Fun

A song of blue and gold

This melancholy fall
Aging it’s golden light
Into the pages
Of my love
where I keep your pictures
Your lovely faces
Still so young
Before
Being Taken
That skinny grey hug of heroin
Or old man booze with his stinking
Brown beard
That yellow skinned blue veined
Monster cancer
With his waxy ever smoking smile
Or maybe
The river just didn’t want to give you back
That night in January
Now I fall
With closed hands
Into piles of dry leaves
our memories
My sweetest freinds
My warm lovers
I smell you on the wind today
And hear your voices
Behind the
High
Moving
Clouds.

I was 7

Step back
Into that time
The thawing maples
Gray hickory roots
Under tiny feet
The shack
Mist of green oak smoke
At the end of winter
In that croton town
The flap of rabbits
In brown waist high brush
That. Clap of a 12 gauge
And the pheasants
Head disappears
Flop and up in the wind
Dinner for us
Following a creek back
In old brass and copper
Sun.

starve, fight, hate

The work
Children brothers
Backs bent in the sun
Hot tar fumes
On plateaus covered in asbestos
Mountains of asphalt
Surrounded by cicadas
Singing in the nasty heat
Growing as broken men
Watching some die
To pay the insurance
To pay the tax
To pay for what is left of your wounded knee
And the slipping transmission
The dread of the winter
Hanging on to some god awful slate
As you twist in the wind
Like old overalls frozen on the line
Looking up to the sky
You ask give me strength
Give my strength
And in a low borrowed voice
From every dying dogs mouth
Covered in tiger skin
Put into a mason jar
And hidden under the sink
It
Says
No.

A stomp in the mud

I find myself missing horses
Not ones I
Have owned. Now.
Horses
From a different
Time
The ones I
Dream about.
A high desert
With bending
Mountains
Dry
With light
Snow
Mesquite
Smoke
And itchy
Blankets
All around
In clear blue
Mornings
Or
Mud covered mares
Waiting for
Work
As cast iron
New tractors
Full of steam warm
In mornings
Covered in
Coal dust
And the ones on the beach
Watching me sail
Away .
I am sorry.

A Bucks County native, Tippett is a largely a self-taught artist who scours art history books and visits museums. He is represented in numerous private collections and has exhibited regionally. His painting, “Bluebird,” was accepted in the National American Artists League 88th Grand National Exhibition (2016) and “Hung out to Dry” won the Phillips Mill Community Association Award in 2017. His paintings were published in the fall 2022 issue of “Under the Gum Tree,” a literary arts magazine featuring creative non-fiction and visual art. See more of his work on Instagram

 He lives with his darling wife Michele Pulaski in Furlong PA. Along with 6 cats .