I used to think
The world was my canvas
I would paint upon
And speak my thoughts
That I ponder on
A World of love
I would write them unto my mind

That would hear my words
So I try and try
But to no avail
Our hearts are ripped
From day to day

We paint
We write
We love
We pray
In this world of canvas

Among all the meaningless time
In the end they are all the same
All the feelings that flows through our
Veins
As we discover life of the arts
In various ways
In the world of canvas...

Debbie Brooks 2014 -

1)
How many writers, asked a friend
(with a cheeky twinkle in his eye)
does it take to change a light bulb?

That's a dim-wit's question, I said
You should ask:
How many times will a writer
change the same light bulb?


2)
My non-writer friend
(his twinkle now dull, then dead)
scratched his head
and to enlighten him I shed some  light
on the subject:
A writer edits and changes
their work many times
to get it perfect;
and so the same thing happens
when you make a writer change the bulb

No, my friend did not appreciate
the illumination

Continually looking beyond you
Wandering and losing the way
The eyes adapted to look outward
Keeping an eye on the whole world
Forgetting to glance within you
Eyes open to the whole world
But closed to the beauty within
The life that awaits your attention
What lies within reflects in the eyes
Capture the beauty everywhere
Eyeing the love that’s all around

Ancient wounds ~ Comet wishes


Bleeding from these ancient wounds
Falling to the earth below
Mud red, blood red, softening the ground
My footprints ache in format patterns

So long the wounds, of age defined,
Dripping masses in the mist
Marked for life, while a beating heart
pumps eternal fluid fears

Watching as the puddles grow,
round at first and then obscure
Fading faster than the sun
on its westward trek of daylight shadows

Weak…I find my eyes they stare
off into the crowning moon
Beams of effervescent glow
shroud me in unknown pleasures

Rising above the crusted mounds
Light as any whispered breeze
Words now call in sweet caress
Melodies of past preferred ring

Lyrics sung to me and me alone
A language that my soul does speak
Piano keys in blended black and white
string together lasting impressions

Symphonies of a healing concerto
press upon my quivered skin
Scars now dance at the revival
and still my feet don’t find the floor

My hand is touched, fingers moved
Warmth embraces this awkward grip
as peace flows, smooth, soft, subtle
through my veins

The bleeding has ceased
Disappeared among comet wishes
and my heart, once silent, now sings
in harmony with her voice…and I dream

O with thy smile thou could make angels fall
whilst the prince of hell would turn from all sin,
angels and demons would forsake their call
while their respective realms turn'd outside in;
would Romeo forsake his Juliet —
ay, a glimpse of thee would be all he'd need
and fair Verona could turn cold and wet
forsaken by the fair sun by one deed.
Nuns to riot and Kings down on their knees
such is the way of Aphrodite's hand,
and none of her choosing know her decrees
until too late as Aphrodite planned —
ay me! for ne'er such beauty such as thine
has shown in stone, in paint, or read in line.