Quote: "when I stand before God at the end of my life, I would hope that I would not have a single bit of talent left and could say: I used everything you gave me"

Only in my dreams
Do I encounter
Branches with real pearls
Rolling down
In a spring breeze

From the depth
Of my gut
I wish to make it real
To build it up
From whatever meets
My expectation

But then I wonder
If I make this
How real will it be?
It was not created
By the vast evolution
We have been subjected to

or was it
perhaps the fact that I'm creating it, is evolution in it's own right*

Overthinking my creative process
Killjoy.
I could draw it
And I did.
It was beautiful
Exactly like in my dream

I could build it from
A real branch
Attach pearls to it
But then would it not be
Totally kitch

Bah- kitch!

I could make it from clay
Yeah. No.
I could sing it's perfection
Maybe it sounds like
A high note
Or the piano...
Can't play the piano.
Can sing though...

Maybe!
I could wait for spring
And take a picture
Of raindrops on tree branches
But it's not the same!
Putting away my Nikon.

Maybe
I'll write a poem
About having
all the talent in the world
And not being able
To express my own imagination.

Cruel irony.

I am not the wreckage
Your life was built upon
Or the side street
Were rushed lovers meet
To greet each other
In a panic with frantic fingers

I am not the hole
You fill to ****
That internal ache

I am not the hero
Or the villain
Of this small
Human production

I am not like
The similes
That litter
Your eulogies
Or the metaphors
You adore

I am simply me
Still searching
To find out
Who that is

Someone is playing a Spanish Guitar
By
Jude Kyrie

Sat alone at the edge of the warm ocean.
Nighttime illuminated brightly,
by a candelabra of moon and stars.
This hot humid night of summer
overpowering me dragging my spirits
Into its sultry mood.

In the distance
someone is playing Spanish guitar.
Its melody almost mournful.
Bringing back my thoughts of you.
Memories that scar heart and soul.
Wavelets lap the shore like your kisses
The night breezes are your sweet breath.
Reflections of a life half lived visit me once again.
.
far into the darkness
Someone is playing spanish guitar.
Note by note burning into my soul
reviving the lost feelings of desolation.

Morning is creeping over the horizon
This night is sinking into me.
Sleep now is only a distant memory.
You fade away with advancing light of morning.

Note by note in the distance
Someone is playing Spanish guitar
And my soul is weeping

Good morning Mary Ellen , you are absolutely right .. Depression shouldn't be the focal point in a beautiful life .. Confusion easily disappears while holding hands with your best friend .. You've returned me to the miracle of creative afternoons with virtually no end ..
When you touch me it makes me want to cry .. As I implore of you to understand my darker side your eyes irradiate my night ..
All the beauty in this world returns my heart to your window ..
I've great comfort as your voice brightens my soul , solace unlike anything I've ever known ..
The joy of Winter constellations that explain the cold sky , the companionship of my dreams purveyor ,
the Muse of a wondrous poetic new life* ..

You have burned up a lot of distance
all heartbeat fuelled
and all your past lovers remember you still
sometimes. And 55 will be your chant
the milestone passed into your 56th year
heading toward 57.