Bits of soul are left behind each day,
The price the Piper demands as pay.
Daily the screw is slowly turned.
Daily the match against the skin is burned.
Tears and sweat that must be shed,
Drops of blood the shredded heart has bled
To pool in words upon these crumpled sheaves,
Images, forms, and meaning together weaves.
Some healing physic, some medicine
To soothe raw nerves and psyche to mend
Seek shelter in a quiet sanctuary
To restore the soul with beauty, music, and poetry.
(©2015. All rights reserved)
“Ambrosia” (Photo: PoeticMeditations
These ephemeral, ink-black pearls,
On snowy sheaves in lines unfurl,
In accordance with the Muse’s art,
Pulse with each beat of the poet’s heart.
Drop by drop, distilled from life’s sensation,
Its essence used in the poem’s creation.
Manna divine to feed the soul
To strengthen it and make it whole.
Man shall not live on bread alone, but dine
On words that lift the spirit to heights sublime.
(PoeticMeditations © 2015)
“Bredon Rose” Watercolor, PoeticMeditations
I see the hand of God in the fashioning of a rose,
The skill and knowledge of the craftsman shows,
Each petal lovingly dipped in vibrant hues
Before wrapped into a bud that’s tightly fused,
Around each stem arranged the thorns protective,
Guards the treasure in a defense collective,
Then sprinkled with a heady, sweet essence
To intoxicate and entice the senses.
Will bloom come gentle springtime’s warming breath
Into brief, glorious beauty before kissed by wilting death.
(PoeticMeditations © 2015 All Right Reserved)
For watercolor practice, I’ve been going rose by rose through Smith & Hawkin’s 100 English Roses for the American Garden.
If this was the last day here on earth for me,
I would rise at the usual hour,
Have a cup of coffee and some toast,
Shower, get dressed, floss and brush my teeth,
Drive to work with the radio on,
Work while dreaming of a better life,
Lunch at my desk from a brown paper bag,
Back to work with one eye on the clock,
Drive back home with the radio on,
Glass of wine and dinner from a box,
TV broadcasting the evening news,
Brush my teeth, change into pajamas,
Turn off the lights and lay down in bed
Unawares I would never wake again
Like all the other unsuspecting
Do on their very last day here on earth.
Seek and you will not find.
Knock and the door will not open.
Ask and it will not be given to you.
Unsought for, you may find.
Unbidden, the door may open.
Unasked for, it may be given to you.
Posted in literature, Poetry
THIS BRUSH THAT ONCE YOU HELD
This brush that once you held,
No longer shall you hold again,
Smoothing your curls into satin tresses,
For from existence now forever gone,
Mere shadow of your presence left behind.
This brush that now remains behind, I hold so dear,
For in this hand I hold
That which your living hand once held.