The proudest thing I think I've ever done,
Such artistry, such skill I have attained!
The semi-glaze reflecting of the sun,
The richness of the blue, so lightly stained;
So perfect is the pointed pouring spout
That sits upon a rim of gold emboss,
And proudly do the handles both stick out,
Exquisite is the painted Celtic cross;
I toiled and slaved for oh so many years,
My fingers ever wet and moist with clay,
But now at last I'm free of all the fears
And doubts that clouded me until this day;
        I know you'll all be very pleased for me,
        So thanks, my friends, on Hello Pottery!

After seeing you
for the first time
in a long time,
You certainly didn't hold up
as well in reality
as you did in my mind
and I don't know whether
to be saddened
or relieved. . . .
but it will
help to secede
from the memories
that have been
tearing at me
Even though
there is part of my being
wishing I didnt give in
after seeing
where I said you belong
has done to you.
Even the most elegant bird
loses her feathers
when encaged for too long
And I no longer wish
to peek through the wire.

i leave my self behind
and let You put your breath in my soul
and it is no longer me who lives
but You.

my heart is
a treasure
my heart is
precious
my heart is
not a toy
my heart is
not meant to be played with
my heart is
not meant to be cut in tiny pieces
my heart is
mine
my heart is
alive
my heart is
a wellspring of life
my heart is
fearfully and wonderfully made
and i know that full well.

Windows to the the world through which I see
Images of shortfalls and views of perpetual inadequacies.
Shut my lids ever hoping for a change in scenery...
But only pictures of emotional chaos, mistakes and uncertainties.

Visions I can't ignore and they can't be severed;
Like a splinter that's embedded but can't be retrieved.
Reluctant at first I wish to have them captured...
Capturing all the disorder, but have the beauty all sieved.

Beauty and light engulfed by this visual turmoil
From windows to canvas, I paint but with a sombre brush.
Vicious strokes represent the feelings that roil;
Devoid of pardon; sing of pressures that crush.

This brush that I use; I've taught it all too well.
It could paint even when running on the subconscious.
It never does relent, nor never will it ever quell,
It'll keep on painting the dark side of the senses.

My canvas just lays receiving the brunt of the strokes.
It lays there quiet; accepts it all without struggle.
Like fuel to a bonfire, it provides and also it stokes;
It lays there ready to accommodate the dust and rubble.

Again the brush finishes with its last deft touches.
Producing the same painting it's painted over and over...
They will never depict meadows with the farthest of reaches
But a portrait of me; staring mournfully into forever...