My Mother's Sunset
What I most remember about her painting
is what she did with the sky.
A band of bright orange, but rapidly fading.
That tangerine stripe at the edge of the ocean,
just before it falls off
at the edge of the world.
I was surprised to see her taking an art class,
but she always had a good sense of color.
Her skirt always had to match her earrings and her shoes.
The food she cooked was colorful –
she taught me to pay attention
to color, taste and spice.
Her voice was another color.
Emotion streaming through a stained-glass window.
That was the way she painted –
a wide stripe of sunset across a desert sky,
a saguaro cactus as a shadow
in the foreground, her vision about
a place where she had never been.
I see it now from my window.
That sunset. This sky.
Driving to Iowa City
I could not have survived Fairfield
without Iowa City.
An hour on a two-lane road,
with banded cows by the red barn
and driving sometimes behind a pig truck.
The cottonwood tree before it was hit by lightning,
and ditches by the side of the road
in case of bad timing before a tornado.
Sometimes driving in the snow,
the surprise of sliding sideways in my white Tercel,
one time into a ditch,
and knowing if they could see me,
my friends in California would be laughing.
Passing by herds of cows and sheep and pigs,
we arrive in Iowa City,
exit before the turnoff to I-80
that would take us to California.
We order a Japanese meal at Aoshi’s,
which does not exist anymore,
and toss a few coins into the wish bridge.
Then we make our rounds
to the used bookstores, the used clothing stores
maybe find a kimono, surplus from Japan.
We vow never to wear anything
from Pamida – no fashion, no taste,
except for the tropical flower bikini I bought
to float in the Dead Sea
after hearing almost everyone in the post office wonder
why would you go to a place like that?
We explore the art galleries
with John as my tour guide.
John, who made himself a letterpress calling card,
a self-pronounced Professor of Art.
He asks me to pay attention
to the way each artist uses light and transparency.
Then we walk to the gallery of hand-made books,
everything hand-made – the cover, the ink,
even the paper the poets used.
Our last stop before our journey home
through corn and alfalfa fields
is the art museum.
John, as Art Professor, tells me
why each painting is museum worthy
and what I should notice about the color and light.
Later, walking down on museum’s wide steps
in the late afternoon,
I once again remember how
after spending an afternoon inside
walls full of multiple paintings,
everything you see has more definition,
everything you see lights up.
Tankas in July
Inspired by five paintings at the MSA Gallery
roots
twisting out of the cracks
of a stone wall –
memories
with tangles and bristles
hovering green flutter
gypsy moth flitting
to pearly everlasting –
long trek to Himalayan
hot spring
lone tree in meadow
shawl of woven green
covering shoulders
of lovers bathed in sunlight
in a sea of prairie grass
the way it flies out of the sky
wash of turquoise, flash of pink
a hint of wild parrot
through fog –
pieces of a dream
the clouds are luminous
wings of angels
floating above the water
light behind the leaves
golden apples on dream branches
Diane Frank is author of nine books of poems, three novels, and a photo memoir of her 400-mile trek in the Nepal Himalayas. Her new book of poems, Prayer to the Invisible, was an overnight bestseller – #3 for American Poetry, #3 for Poems by Women. While Listening to the Enigma Variations: New and Selected Poems won the 2022 Next Generation Indie Book Award for Poetry. Mermaids and Musicians, was published in 2025, and her first novel, Blackberries in the Dream House, was nominated for the Pulitzer Prize. She teaches at San Francisco State University, Dominican University, and the Blue Light Press On-Line Poetry Workshop.
What I most remember about her painting
is what she did with the sky.
A band of bright orange, but rapidly fading.
That tangerine stripe at the edge of the ocean,
just before it falls off
at the edge of the world.
I was surprised to see her taking an art class,
but she always had a good sense of color.
Her skirt always had to match her earrings and her shoes.
The food she cooked was colorful –
she taught me to pay attention
to color, taste and spice.
Her voice was another color.
Emotion streaming through a stained-glass window.
That was the way she painted –
a wide stripe of sunset across a desert sky,
a saguaro cactus as a shadow
in the foreground, her vision about
a place where she had never been.
I see it now from my window.
That sunset. This sky.
Driving to Iowa City
I could not have survived Fairfield
without Iowa City.
An hour on a two-lane road,
with banded cows by the red barn
and driving sometimes behind a pig truck.
The cottonwood tree before it was hit by lightning,
and ditches by the side of the road
in case of bad timing before a tornado.
Sometimes driving in the snow,
the surprise of sliding sideways in my white Tercel,
one time into a ditch,
and knowing if they could see me,
my friends in California would be laughing.
Passing by herds of cows and sheep and pigs,
we arrive in Iowa City,
exit before the turnoff to I-80
that would take us to California.
We order a Japanese meal at Aoshi’s,
which does not exist anymore,
and toss a few coins into the wish bridge.
Then we make our rounds
to the used bookstores, the used clothing stores
maybe find a kimono, surplus from Japan.
We vow never to wear anything
from Pamida – no fashion, no taste,
except for the tropical flower bikini I bought
to float in the Dead Sea
after hearing almost everyone in the post office wonder
why would you go to a place like that?
We explore the art galleries
with John as my tour guide.
John, who made himself a letterpress calling card,
a self-pronounced Professor of Art.
He asks me to pay attention
to the way each artist uses light and transparency.
Then we walk to the gallery of hand-made books,
everything hand-made – the cover, the ink,
even the paper the poets used.
Our last stop before our journey home
through corn and alfalfa fields
is the art museum.
John, as Art Professor, tells me
why each painting is museum worthy
and what I should notice about the color and light.
Later, walking down on museum’s wide steps
in the late afternoon,
I once again remember how
after spending an afternoon inside
walls full of multiple paintings,
everything you see has more definition,
everything you see lights up.
Tankas in July
Inspired by five paintings at the MSA Gallery
roots
twisting out of the cracks
of a stone wall –
memories
with tangles and bristles
hovering green flutter
gypsy moth flitting
to pearly everlasting –
long trek to Himalayan
hot spring
lone tree in meadow
shawl of woven green
covering shoulders
of lovers bathed in sunlight
in a sea of prairie grass
the way it flies out of the sky
wash of turquoise, flash of pink
a hint of wild parrot
through fog –
pieces of a dream
the clouds are luminous
wings of angels
floating above the water
light behind the leaves
golden apples on dream branches
Diane Frank is author of nine books of poems, three novels, and a photo memoir of her 400-mile trek in the Nepal Himalayas. Her new book of poems, Prayer to the Invisible, was an overnight bestseller – #3 for American Poetry, #3 for Poems by Women. While Listening to the Enigma Variations: New and Selected Poems won the 2022 Next Generation Indie Book Award for Poetry. Mermaids and Musicians, was published in 2025, and her first novel, Blackberries in the Dream House, was nominated for the Pulitzer Prize. She teaches at San Francisco State University, Dominican University, and the Blue Light Press On-Line Poetry Workshop.
