“I put my heart and soul into my work,
and have lost my mind in the process.”

                                         Taunted and tormented
                                         Voices in his mind
                                         Dreams filled with anguish
                                         Love he couldn’t find

“Art is to console those who are broken by life.”

                          His heart, his soul
                          crushed by deep despair
                          struggling to breathe
                          weight he couldn’t bear

“One can speak poetry by arranging colors well.”

                                           Swirls of cobalt
                                           splash of emerald green
                                           flashes of deep carmine
                                           saffron flares between

“The night is more alive, more richly colored than the day.”

                        Nights beneath his brush
                        became life’s multicolored page
                                        his words and wisdom were
                        far beyond his age.

“The more I think it over the more I feel there is
nothing more truly artistic than to love people.”  

                                       Love was not a certainty
                                       but stars could make him dream
                                       greatness escaped his grasp
                                       his work remained unseen.

“A great fire burns within me, but no one stops
to warm themselves at it.  Passersby see only a wisp of smoke.”

                                         Had he not ended his life,
                                         would his praises have been sung?
                                         If you die so early
                                        are you forever young?

Our parents.
They are what we wish not to be
but will become.
Some too soon gave up the ghost
while others gaze now squarely
into the face of death.

They are a full-length mirror
from which we avert our eyes
as though by not seeing we'll control what is
and what will be.

In a bid to smooth the wrinkles
before they even form,
we slather on the ointment of denial
and smugly turn our heads in scorn.

A minute for a dollar, a second for a dime.
I execute it all for pay.
My daily trade is killing time.

I slice the day up like a lime
in sections green and silver-gray.
A minute for a dollar, a second for a dime.

I'm practiced in this pantomime,
proficient, quite au fait.
My daily trade is killing time.

Like a hit man in his prime
I knock off the hours of the day.
A minute for a dollar, a second for a dime.

Yet killing here is not a crime;
it's merely the established way.
My daily trade is killing time.

No. killing here is not a crime;
it's the toll road through this fray.
A minute for a dollar, a second for a dime.
My daily trade is killing time.

In your day we know the sonnet was the rage
but I can't write in rhyme or formal verse.
I feel constrained and locked within a cage.
In fact, I consider it a curse.

Now I find I'm being asked to do it.
"Just write," he says, "the form won't hold you back"
maintaining that there's really nothing to it.
"Just write to find out if you have a knack."

Though it's an assignment I have to do
I'm not sure there is a purpose for
this convoluted rhyme you used to woo
your listeners in days of yore.

How hard did you have to work to do it well?
Or did it come easily for you, pray tell!?

My brain is uninhabited by rhyme.
No words swirl 'round, no thesis comes to mind.
How can I write a masterpiece sublime?
How can I do this work I've been assigned?

You've formed one verse. Continue at this task.
Don't think. Just write upon the barren page.
Perhaps some Truth, in whisking off its mask,
will encourage the struggling pen to engage.

Epiphany! That's what I'm yearning for,
emerging from this verse and scribbled here,
an extraordinary insight, nothing more.
And yet, the chance deserts me fast, I fear.

I've filled up all the lines in front of me,
*But look! The sonnet is fait accomplis!

In a dream a spider swallows a snake and
smiles
like  a
giant yellow sunflower being  kissed   by
                                                                ­ bees
                                                            ­     who
dance  wildly  with the  wind  as  it  turns
white
with
anticipation.   The  snake  charmer   plays
                                                           ­         his
                                                    ­              tune.
The  spider  dances,  rising up,  stretching,
elongating.
Her  legs
disappear, drawing   into  her  body where
                                                           ­         they
                                                   ­                 turn
into a flickering tongue that protrudes from
her
lips.
She wriggles in her dance; her tongue waves
                                                           ­         in the
                                                             ­       air to
the melody, begins  to sing a  sultry,  hissing
song.
Then
the charmer's flute begins to move, undulating
                                                      ­                  to her
                                                             ­           song's
cadence.   And the charmer is himself charmed.
He
sits
in a trance as his snake-flute wraps itself around
                                                          ­                    him
                                         ­                                     and
the  spider  looking  li­ke a  snake swallows them
both.

In the dark regions
of the ocean...
dreams gather...
all the dreams
of all the minds
from the starry nights,
the moonlit nights,
the dark and empty nights.

They merge into the blackness,
plunging to its depths.

The dreams are lost,
swirling with seaweed,
caught on rocks,
stuck in reefs.
The ocean spits
into the eye of the world.

Loneliness arches like
a solitary gull
whose form scarcely
shows against the sky's grayness,
circling
the watery abyss.

That you grow strong and tall
keeping your child-like spirit
your heart filled with love and wonder,
I wish
That you have music and good times
That you are loved and cherished
I wish that sunshine fill your days
And peaceful dreams the nights
I wish for you to know your beauty
And your worth...

But now, mostly I wish
you were still with us,
my beautiful son.

You clipped my wings
They grew back.
You dampened my spirit
It sought the sunshine to dry.
You tried to hold me back
I trudged ahead
Each step more gratifying than the last.
You made me feel less
I pursued more.
You cracked my shell
I glued it back.
You crushed my dreams
I created them anew.
Each more beautiful than the last.
Like the Phoenix
I always rise
To fly among my own stars
In my own universe
You cannot turn me to ashes
You cannot seize my soul.
Though fragile at times
My spirit is ever free.

And the one became two
And the one became many
Yet
The many remained one
And the one, coiled
And floating in darkness, grew
And dreamed of being more
And the one dreamed many dreams
And the dreams were soft and cloud-like
And the one knew peace in this warm place

Until
The thunder came
And the heavens around the one shook
And heaved with violent shudders

She who held the heavens cried out
And her cries, coming in torrents,
Filled the air
And her voice was deep and powerful
And her lightning words
Split the heavens

Still
The thunder raged

The green man reached sinewy arms
Into the heavens
He had no mouth to speak,
Yet
He spoke
And his words fell like gentle rain
Amidst the thunder
Amidst the lightning words
Of she who held the heavens

And the one poured forth amidst the rain

And the heavens shone all around…

What do you need to let go?

Is it stuff?  Baggage?
Trinkets wrapped in tissue paper
Yellowed by the years
Trunks full of dim memories,
Outgrown dreams
And crumpled hopes?

What do you need to let go?

A toxic relationship?
Walk away with your head high.
Wish them the best but leave.
Letting go takes more courage
Than staying.  Walk away…
Unbound.

What do you need to let go?

Is it anger?
Fiery searing in your being
Smoldering and intense?
Let it burn itself out
Leaving only ashes.
Gather them
Blow them away
And be free.

What do you need to let go?

Is it fear?
Fear overcome is exhilaration.
As the fledgling nudged
From the nest
Must feel as he falls…
Then finds power
In his tiny wings.

What do you need to let go?

Is it grief?
Grief lived through
Can feel like death itself,
But as death transforms
Grief …let go...
Gives rise to strength.

What do you need to let go?