An architect of tile and stone,
mosaic played beautifully in natural colors of desert hues and corresponding twists of evergreens,
Super-heated heavy iron,
along sparks of arc that weld the mind to something infinite yet sublime,
Pastels,
blurring lines of what is real from what is seen,
on canvas unrealized,
Sculptured earthy clay resembling remembrances of more than simple glimpses set in stone,
Artistry of gastronomy,
purging old ideas and new-found taste to tease the discriminating palates of those inclined,
Poets reading widows tears in pouring rain,
outside well-lighted and closed laundro-mats in frigid airy nights,
Waiting to be heard and yet unrecognized in blue-grey hoodies,
Svelte voices and incantations that long for listening ears,
Writers writing about journeys and destinations,
each mile travelled and another respite upon their road, 'Poets, preists and politicians...their words are their ambitions',
Maybe someday there will arise,
a scientist,
that will surmise,
'All is one and one is all',
Then the bleats will not go unheard.