The stream (all workshops)
From the sun I'd borrow its warmth
from the clouds some softness
from the stars the pride
and would borrow from the rain gentleness
to wrap my frigid heart.
From the sky I'd borrow its glory
from the day some light
from the night the quietness
and would borrow from the moon its sight
to veil my weary face
I'd borrow from the trees generosity
from the sea some passion
from the rocks some strength
and would borrow from the soil compassion.
to fill up that greedy heart.
Middling Finale
utter failing
aspirations grand
anticipation
stripped away
one dream
in succession
as the abyss
of mediocrity
yawns bleak
oblivion
glowers back
fixedly
watchful
one misstep
condemn
and decree
the final
shame
and end
of
me
The setting sun
backlights a tree
in midst of a bare field
turning every limb and twig
stark black
This old oak
backlit by pink
a tracery of random lines
combined in their complexity
to form a singular
tangle of lace
Laid bare by winter
for all who care to see
those twig tips
reaching skyward
toward remembered light and warmth
for now diminished
yet unforgotten
as this tree dreams on
of spring and rekindled life
Eyes cast down
submissive stance
she's his clown
he leads the dance
Always at his bidding
no initiative to show
she must forever show willing
or his wrath she will know
He'll pay for whatever she wants
as long as she obeys
with pretty things he taunts
her emotions he plays
She's his possession
one of his toys
he's her obsession
she lovingly complies
The morning awakes most cloudy and dark,
gray billowy skies forming into an arc,
ominous weather now posing a murky destiny,
as the blacksmith sips black coffee from his crockery.
Preparing his thoughts for the day’s vocation
a journeyman gruffly enters to the kitchen,
taking a piece of brown loaf-bread from the oven,
he asks the Master for the work day’s instruction.
Language,
its live music fills the universe with sounds
that never die,
each phrase recorded in the sky,
the rhythms of its song established, tried,
ever changing with the throng of youth
in newer times.
All variations on the theme,
the voice of many tongues,
a magical cacophony of utterances, written,
sung,
performed as dance,
interpreted expressions of our lives,
that out in space,
when we are gone,
survives.
covet silk winds
across quiet brocade shadows
a brutal fist of
hail beneath the anvils
of summer
lay down the pleasant
sash of wealth
a wrath of war
for harvest lush
ambrosial slaughter
rising in the mists
~
I'm missing most my denticals
she still loves me so;
there's a hitch in my ventricle
I don't let that show;
I've laughed with her and started to cry
we've even cried at the end of a laugh,
everything else is nonsensical when you view the photograph,
and get the gist of our aftermath.
~
At times I'll get an attitude
she still loves me, so;
I'll get higher than my latitude
I don't let her know;
I sometimes feel like a fictional character
Unreal, unlike any other
Walking about this foreign place called reality
Never being seen
Merely looked at for amusement
as they blindfoldedly walk amongst me
I can’t find any of you,
That I can relate to
Except those select few,
Who I never really knew
A vagrant, a passerby
None can truly see me, even those who try
Am I really content with such solitude?
I try to convince myself I am
But it always comes back to this
You're a dream
that I'm left struggling to remember
- the details blurry
and fading fast.
Trying to picture your face and mannerisms
is something my brain has to
frantically grasp for
before it's been dissolved into my subconscious
and forgotten.
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