TRIBUTES
(click on obituary to open or download as PDF)
A Mountain Teaching by Louis Dunn
Three Poems by Terrance McLarnan
For Tom Richardson (Poet/Painter/Pal)
This poem is an interaction with Tom's poem "Eating for two."
Daydream’s Rough Cut
The ringing bells
awaken this growling sleep
the vases have cracked
the oracle was wrong
my feet begin wobble & wander
now less strong.
Flowers refuse to be counted
the buds pine & blooms faint,
their colors fade
by early afternoon.
The ancients are muttering
their columns begin to shudder
the lions roar by day & by night,
a Serengeti chorus for you
this I am told,
is true.
This celestial fallout
empties the sky
Star by star by star
all wrung out,
no longer glow
the earth has turned over,
our side is cold.
This night falls
into ceremonial sounds
sacred drum chanting
tomtomtomtomtomtom,
sparks fly, cedar smells
squirrelly fiery licks
highahighahighahighahigha-high
deepens the darkening.
Dear, Maestro,
as I kneel
the night’s deep blue
deepens deeper &
becomes all of you.
Tom and Terrance were in a poetry group that met every Monday for years. The group's members shared each other's poetry soul.
Monday’s No More
Sitting by this open window,
at news of his death,
it is all sky and no color.
I remove my glasses,
he won’t come back to our
Monday mornings again,
be among us and
sit to at my left.
His novelty
created new feelings,
with tomasian honesty,
in so few words.
I admired his dexterity.
His talents were quietly built,
though I suspect, he’d dance
with Tweedledum and Tweedledee,
if he had the chance.
But nature is an executioner
and asks for no forgiveness.
There will be no atonement;
I know this, so
I won’t ask.
I like to think
he is on a crusade
to a Holy Land of his own.
I slip out with the low tide to follow his view
and hail to him.
As I lower the shade
to end my day, I think
it doesn’t matter what soothes the soul
even when concealed from the eye.
Remembering Us: An Open Series
After all these years,
a lull entered the room
instead of you,
the sun and moon become still.
The light is now unbalanced
shadows land in a different spot
and silence becomes our sound.
Inside this door, life’s brutality pulls no punches.
Our solitude will not disappear but
go forward with the kindness of western light
as humanity hums in the background.
Our queries have only begun to ripen.
They hang like hard pears
hidden behind dense leaves
that softened as we wandered;
they left us fat with life,
without remembering much of what was said.
This is the sparest account.
A longer version
does not negate this rendering.
Your necessary departure,
left this old man sadder, if not
sunnier, you are lovelier
than the songbird which brought you.
Reminiscence about my long friendship with Tom
by John Hooper
Tom Richardson became an important figure in my life almost as soon as our families became neighbors on Buena Vista Ave East in 1982. Molly and I had just moved from Noe Valley with two little babies into what was then known as a “fixer-upper.”
To touch on a few highlights:
In 1985, Tom and Beth and Molly and I found ourselves raising identically-aged newborn daughters, both named Rach(a)el.
As it turned out, Tom became an early strong influence on all our three children, particularly due to his commitment to art and also his open-mindedness and keen interest in young minds.
Tom and I took weekly walks in Buena Vista Park for years; we served as members of the Buena Vista Neighborhood Ass’n board together and focused on restoration of that beautiful but neglected park. Tom was very supportive during some of the more contentious parts of a campaign I led to restore our park and make it more welcoming.
For years, Tom and Beth rented “the Domes” at our OZ Farm on the Garcia River, using it annually for a month at a time, as their summer art studio and encouraging Molly and me in the development of our “retreat center” at Oz Farm.
Tom’s daughter, Angela, was married at the farm. His Rachael did a farm internship there.
We occasionally used the Domes field as a target range and taught our kids gun safely there.
Tom’s garage art studio on Buena Vista Ave East was a constant magnet for me and our children. On weekend days, a faint whiff of pot could indicate that Tom was painting there and that the welcome mat was out to come in and discuss what he was working on.
Over the years, Molly and I also had the excitement of hosting two shows of Tom’s paintings - one in our rental apartment between occupancies and the other in our cottage next door. Over the course of years, we had the good fortune of becoming collectors of a number of Tom’s paintings which still occupy places of honor.
Finally, Tom and Beth and Molly and I all attended the SF symphony together for a number of years, having the fun of deciding which concerts to attend and discussing the programs during intermissions.
I miss Tom and think often of our friendship. He left us very suddenly in 2020 and still find myself about to pick up the phone to see if he has time to take a walk around the park.
If there is a ray of sunshine in losing Tom, it is that Beth remains our good friend and neighbor! As do Tom’s daughters. We are very lucky to have them as our friends.
With love! Jock
I'd known Tom since I was just a kid, having grown up down the block from him, Beth and Rachel. Tom was really who got me interested in art at a young age. His visits to our family's farm, Oz, were deeply inspiring as a kid - watching he and Beth transform the domes into their studios every summer. Real live artists at work! He gave me black paper sketchbooks and colored pencils and encouraged me to immerse myself in making images. I tried my best to copy his technique. After a summer camping in Alaska, I came back and was compelled to dive into painting. I see Tom's influence as a major part of this turning-point. While I may not paint as much these days, my personal and professional journey has been intertwined with the arts since Tom's first encouragement.
Later, when I was running galleries in San Francisco, I could count on Tom and Beth coming to the openings - always supportive, always curious about the work.
While I didn't see him as much as I'd like to in that last few years, we could always pick up where we left off when we did run into one another. He was consistently warm and interested in what I was up to. I do and will continue to miss Tom. He was a great guy and an important person in my life.
- Nate Hooper
Tribute to Tom
by Harry Hull
My friendship with Tom evolved easily over many years I lived in San Francisco (1990-2004). We were introduced by mutual friend, Jock Hooper, a neighbor of Tom's. Tom was not a constant companion in the sense of frequent and prolonged time together: he had a life too full of other friends, a compelling career, a passionate avocation for art and poetry, not to mention a family. But in the time we did spend together I came to gradually realize he was the kind of soulmate who made the way I experienced the here-and-now invigorating, thoughtful, and invariably fun, bringing out a version of myself that I have been happily proud of. Tom was the kind of friend you might not see for months (especially after Gail and I moved to Costa Rica in 2008) but with whom you pick up right where you left off once together. And as a bonus, I came to know Beth, too, inextricably a part of our friendship.
From all I’ve learned after Tom’s passing, he had soulmates in many areas of his life. I think our prime connection—like that of many of his friends, I suspect—was an appreciation for the joy of artistic creation. Tom was the rare kind of artist who could actually share that often elusive joy, whether reviewing his own work and work-in-process or that of others. And he was a constant inspiration to me in the way he made his fine art, literally and figuratively, part of his life. His “creative process” embraced serendipity to a degree that echoed my own; and he was fearless in exploring materials, techniques, and themes dear to his heart. (I have learned that he also had “another life” as a poet and selfishly envy those who were part of his poetry circle.)
But with the perspective of his absence, I miss Tom most for the kind, thoughtful, generously open person he was and how he led his life. He lived his life mindfully in the best sense, with an awareness of the full spectrum of what life throws at you, from highs to lows, but able to navigate through his years holding on to a life force that, in its essence, is love. I think this is why we all loved him. He showed how it could be done.
Not seeing you I miss myself
Now we write
to find you
to see you
With a sense of mystery
we listen for you
who lives down there?
Not having you here
is a different kind of silence
faced with ourselves
without you
Who of us said
it’s never too late
to let the fishes swim?
For over 15 years we met regularly with Tom and Gloria Burk to be with each other and our writing, painting, collaging and sewing. This poem composed with words from each of us, is written in memory of Tom and Gloria.
Annie Sweetnam
Candis Cousins 2/14/22
