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A poet loves to question
love and praise the beauty of anguish,
he drinks the strength
of justice
like Mr. Hyde to Jekyll's buried famished
thirst
a poet needs hidden
Treasures true in the pond, the search,
the meanings, symbols and riddled
rambling - man of petals of roses
he angers at stoics
and weeps when he sees love between
enemies - finding peace
in rhetoric
the harmony of overwhelming feelings
he is privy to the silence, congealing, and understands
why and how
the ways of things, work,
the violence of truth, berths
moving revelations in compromising
and yet the importance of
where and when
the sun is surely rising

a poet may love to hurt at times
the moon waxes full and blue with brine,
but it is the passion a poet finds
when he stays true

The
Rhyme’s own journals /written
Days,
nights.
pain. songs.
sublime.
rain, love, or come shine.
deign to cry.
dream.
breathe.
die.
 Dec 2017 SK O'Sullivan
mike dm
keep it simple
just a wrinkle
calm as flower

pedaling fingerfelt winter sun

(if only
if only)
Angels make the bouquets 
I see as I thumb through this Chagall book
life is served on a bed of blue sky
aspirations made of soft shells 
like molting ***** 
these flowers bloom risking penury 
to offer a glimpse of eternity 

make themselves windows of the blooming tree 
a prism in a subjective room 
they chose their lives in alternative 
and reflect themselves as canals of rainbows 

I sip a glass of wine and ponder this page
the museums of silken selves the artist left for us
Chagall painted old age so devoid of color 
and vitality 
because he knew as we age
we empty our imaginations
into the angels
who then arrive
holding flowers
for the young
©mary winslow 2017 all rights reserved
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