An artist with a universal canvas, using words as paint.

A poet, an artist, (with little restraint)
Penciled words on his canvas, saw no use for paint,
Crafted words into pictures; Visions out loud.
Of most of his work, was exceedingly proud.
Unfettered, unbounded, his huge canvas at wait
He brandished his pencil and began to create.
Desiring a masterpiece, appealing to all
Pride prompted his excess, preceded his fall
Trapped in a vortex, surrounded by words,
Shared them with others to see if they heard.

The public was skeptic, and reflected the same
His confidence shattered; His ability shamed
He had written with passion, as if possessed
But the silence of critics left him redressed.
“Who is it says everyone cannot be pleased?
Off with their heads!  Get them down on their knees!”
He drew a sharp sword, surrendered a laugh,
Sliced his canvas to shreds, cut his pencil in half.
“I’ve heard your silence, the first version *****”
Sharpened his pencil, wrote ‘Surrounded Redux. ’

PwL 4/20/15

She smiled, looked up at him, and quickly kissed his cheek.
Then turned and walked away from the turmoil of the week,
Her crystal blue eyes moistened as she neared the airline gate,
And an inner pain engulfed her as she struggled with her fate.

He stood still, surprised, and wondered what she meant to say,
Her kiss was sweet but melted like the springtime snow in May.
Was it beginning? Was it ending? What future lies ahead?
He said 'Goodbye' and turned away.  Words better left unsaid.

Both home to their own islands, alone with thoughts and doubt.
Nobody they can talk to - No way to work it out.
What will she say? What will he think? My God, what have we done?
And maybe out of Darkness a single ray of sun.

Her resolve much stronger than his lust, her drive to do what's right,
Prevailed and gave her judgement (though she didn't sleep that night.)
And life goes on, and snowfalls come - Young children play on sleds,
And both can dream what might have been. Dreams better left unsaid.
PwL  2005

I’m astounded, not bounded, confounded, dumbfounded,
Hounded and grounded and surrounded by words.

A Poet 10W:
An artist with a universal canvas, using words as paint.

Ballads, rhythmic fun
Joyful song, Cries of despair
All kinds of poems.

A wordsmith from way far away
Convinced the crowd he had nothing to say;
“My current work does not show it,
But I would be a great poet
If my words would get out of my way.”

Who is there that has not  (after wine and a woman) thought himself Shakespeare?
Desirous of her continuing affections, composed a sonnet recounting her beauty and proclaiming his eternal love…………………….
“Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall………………..”

A poet, an artist with little restraint
Penned words on his canvas,
Saw no use for paint,
Bent those words into pictures
Visions out loud
Of most of his work, was exceedingly proud.
But the public was skeptic
And reflected the same
His confidence shattered
His ability shamed
Still he wrote with a passion
As if possessed
To silence his critics
Until each was redressed.
“Who is it says everyone cannot be pleased?
Off with your heads!  Get down on your knees!”
He drew a sharp sword, surrendered a laugh
Sliced his canvas to shreds, cut his pencil in half.
“I’ll be the judge of what I want to say,”
Sheathed pencil and sword, then walked away.
PwL 4/18/15

The dark of night cannot compare
With the unlit cave into which I stare;
Once entered there is no way out.
Fighting still, I thrash about
Reaching for a solid wall
Terrified that I will fall
Farther down into the void
Into the great abyss, destroyed.

No sunlight reaches into Hell
To light the way for those who fell.
No candles burn to show the way
Up from the depths to light of day;
What would have redemption cost
Those wandering souls forever lost?
The fallen will not rise again
For the flames of Hell are black with sin.
PwL  4/18/15

‘Tis the tale of Carry-Me Keri,
And how she got the name
On vacation off to Boston
(Of Tea Party Fame)

There’s a trail marked in yellow
Along those famous streets
Her father, saving money
Thought they should walk somewhere to eat.

So they walked the famous trail
Keri and her Mom and Dad
And they saw all kinds of history
And that part wasn’t bad.

But then they set off walking
To a restaurant on the pier
They were hungry, thirsty, tired
In need of soda pop and beer.

It was very hot and sweaty
In Boston in July
So they promised her spaghetti
So she wouldn’t start to cry.

And they continued walking
At least a couple miles
Tears and angry talking
Had replaced the once bright smiles.

Keri sometimes fell behind
When her parents turned around
They saw their daughter on the sidewalk
Sitting on the ground.

“Carry-Me” their Keri pled,
"I’m tired of all this walkin'"
“Pick her up”, her Mother said,
And she continued talkin'.

“You’ve taken us on this long walk.
Now we’re tired, hot and mad.
You’ve got to Carry Keri
Cuz’ you’re the big, strong Dad."

So I picked her up, and I suppose
I thought the restaurant was near
The two girls could get some water
And I could have a beer.

FINALLY!  We made it!
(Although I now forget its name)
It was a ‘recommended’ restaurant,
One of quite a bit of fame.

“Do you have reservations?,”  asked the haughty mai·tre d',
Well......   We had none, of course.
“No matter, you can’t eat here anyway;
“Your daughter’s wearing shorts.”

We turned around, defeated
But what to my surprise
A cab just sitting in the lot
I caught the driver’s eyes.

“How much is it to get downtown?”
(Though I really didn’t care)
I was gonna pay most anything
To get us out of there.

The driver’s surly answer,
I remember to this day,
“If you have to ask, you can’t afford,”
Then the ******* drove away.

I carried her back into town
And we found a place to eat
But before we even ordered
Keri was asleep.

So I carried her to our hotel
She slept until the morn
That’s the story of Carry-Me Keri
And how the name was born!

PwL 4-14-15

Over Sixty years of marriage
We know that Dad still hurts
But the only words he ever said,
"We knew one of us would go first."
Phil Lindsey, 4/15/15