Is the man the artist?
Or the artist the man?
Are the strokes the man's
and the works the artist's?

The man can paint
but so does the artist.

Does the work betray
the man in the artist?
Or the artist in the man?

The work we see
was done by who?

This short stint
beneath the sun
has seen me
stretching for the stars, for
nothing other than
knowing that before
the earth shades
what I must shed
I took a chance to
reach for what
seemed beyond me,
if not for
a thing at all
to savour the joy
of labouring to be
more than what
I might have
been.

You shall don no silk gloves, tailcoats
or even a tophat, all you'll
have is an assembly
of a scattered and
yet attentive audience,
and you, the performer.

Pleasantly it is not fear
that will make you nearly
light-headed, it is the demand
that you must perform.
a few breaths in, and a smirk on your
face, and voila....

Your act, miserably enchanting
as it has been, is amazing to
those only simpler than yourself.
Much in the same way
as you are taken by something
more grand.

Few tricks here, few tricks
there, is all the magic
we have to get us
by.

Headed home
Wrestling thoughts
At the end
Of the sort of day
One hopes not to see again,
I caught the dancing reflection
Of a moon left to itself,
Shine on the ripples
Beneath the bridge
That stretches home.

The darkness within
And around welcomed
The joyful radiance
Of a beauty
Hardly ever seen,
Yet giving me cause to think:
Elsewhere nature
Paints a scene
That has no audience.

Look up to
The heavens,
Full
And empty
As it is
And with spent
Patience, joy
Might descend.

Thoughts above,
Feet aground.

There in the clouds,
Are no angels,
But the men
Who make them.