THE ALCHEMIST

He draws a line in arabesque, to trace
a whirling smoke around the mortal band;
surprised vacancy wraps around a hand
that starts to sculpture beauty’s lovely face.

With hands in cosmic mist he would aspire
to fold back stars beyond the milky sea,
but what he finds, re-forms, increases ire,
where eye ahead of sense just cannot see?

And though his soul in sweet radiance blush,
in heaven’s twinkled call, in her full rush,
he struggles still to place her sweet face near,
in this instance of beauty’s presence here;

but he feels her loveliness everywhere
in lieu of letter, word, frame or brush.

Abode of Beauty

To sculptor beauty’s lovely face
he rolls raw force within a band,
But he’s so awkward, cannot trace
or find art’s ease within his hand;

with soul gone deep he would aspire
to flow into the milky way,
But what is there but call his ire
To search where mortals may not play.

And while his soul to sweetness blush,
in heaven’s twinkle, beauty’s rush,
he struggles still to place her near
that essence, beauty, present here.