Out of every song*
That God has ever sung
First and foremost among them all
You are his favorite one

For you are the poetry of God
His best to grace the stage
Out of all of his creation
His favorite in what he's made

While nature proclaims his glory
It is man in whom he delights
Taking the dust with hands of love
And breathing in the poetry of life

Out of all the wonders in this world
That so clearly can be seen
The miracle of man by Gods own hand
*Is you, his poetry

~


Posy petal’d tear drops
on saffron colored morns
fall deep in the shadows
where sunshine is only a reflection
of the beauty once shared
~
Clouded days sing dreary sonnets
and all other butterflies are sad,
for those cherished wings
of brilliant colors
are gone from this field
~
Now a misty shade of gray
lingering in the thoughts
of one so missed…
finds the garden gates locked,
never to open again
~
Where rainbows once painted blue hydrangea skies
and daffodil promises carried our smiles,
sorrow now gathers in shapeless corners,
missing this butterfly
all had so come to adore
~
*and the earth weeps…

Allow the spontaneity of the idea to carry your hands, your fingers, upon keyboard, across canvas, dashing on paper.

Don't fear it's arrival, but leap when it does, strike whilst it gets you and keep it within the heart of the soul.

Let it take you down wondrous  ventures of originality and great voyagers of emancipated art.

Oh, it falls from the sky and explodes in the mind. It's intangible and nobody has ever seen it, but by god have they felt it.

Now never let it linger, never  let the flame fall to embers. go whilst the glorious fire burns inside you and amaze yourself at your spectacular projections, as they leap out before you.

None know when it comes, but lord behold when it does. It will take you the pits of your anguish and illuminate the rainbows of your joy; unfolding  before you see the magic of the mind, sparkling in the beauty of your work.

Night and fog
setting in-unsettling
now that the rain has stopped

the live oak in the dark
creaks under the weight
of dying limbs

mean high tide
at three a.m.
means no ghosts will walk
ashore

U-227 lies on the bottom
not too far out from here
where she went down
in the nacht und nebel
while the live oak creaked
and the ocean roared.

r ~ 8/10/14

On a solitary branch
Yellow bird is perched
Preening herself with care
Singing to her mate
Waiting for him eagerly
Looking for appreciation
For her beauty
Two yellow birds on a branch
Perfectly matched