Within the Moonlight,
of your beauty, I feel Sweet love,
With the Melodies,
of its Exotic rain,
Songs and Poems,
Become luminous flowers,
Within the golden hours,

You Sway within the Heavenly
Stillness and Vineyards
of Our love,
With the Champagne stars
Up above,
And
Fine wine of Our Loves Art
Reynaldo Casison

If evidence is incrimination,
Then fleeting art is an exoneration.
Like pictures drawn in the sand,
Like lightning turning sand to glass;
As though a constellation were made from a man,
As though a mule became a golden ***.

Ink bleeds softly on thin paper,
your words, like strokes of painted light,
arrive, a week delayed, a world away.
I trace the curve of your imagined hand,
the ghost of pigment, the scent of distant rain,
a landscape formed from sentences, and sighs.
My desk, a cluttered altar, holds your art,
a still life of our unspoken dreams,
within a Garden of Whispers, softly spun.

The brush you wield, a whispered secret,
creates worlds I can only touch in thought.
Your canvas blooms with colors I have missed,
a vibrant echo of your absent smile.
Each letter, a portrait of your soul,
revealed in glimpses, shadows, and soft hues.
We build a Garden of Whispers, line by line,
a sanctuary where our spirits meet,
a place where distance cannot truly steal.

The moon, a silent witness to our words,
hangs heavy in the night, a silver coin.
I write by candlelight, the shadows dance,
a phantom audience to my devotion.
My pen, a clumsy instrument of love,
attempts to capture what your art conveys.
I yearn for touch, for shared and simple breath,
within this Garden of Whispers, we reside,
a moment where the ink and paint collide.

The year revolves, a slow and aching dance,
of paper ships that sail across the miles.
I wait for spring, for your returning hand,
to paint the landscape of a living day.
My heart, a canvas stretched and waiting still,
for your arrival, for your vibrant touch.
The letters fade, the ink begins to pale,
yet in this Garden of Whispers, love remains,
a masterpiece, etched in the soul’s long hall.

Art is born in a poets hand,
Though, like the fragile flower it is,
Art always crumbles to dust.

It drags the poet with it too,
For deep in their heart it grows its roots.
So when it fades, wrapping tight around their sickly heart,
The beating stops and they drop.

still the same songbird i ever was,
i hum our songs in hope of your return
the duets are now solos
i still hum in one singular melody though
i couldn’t recall your high notes
pretty much like how
i couldn’t recall the strokes of your flying movement






maybe it was the distance

Without the will, power is meaningless. Without power, will is ineffective.

The artist's true power is deception. Mystery is her medium, myth is her message.

Without the willpower to do something, is it possible to will oneself to obtain it?

The artist only panders to nostalgia. The profit speaks about current events. The historian lays-out a plan for the future.

Could will be the emerged pattern of chemical and electrical forces, as evolved via the force of entropy?

Could we be driven to seek will? Can we will new drives?

your vase is not too much for the teacup in their hand.

I cannot paint a sky of blue or verdant leaves of green,
the shapes of plants and flowered heads
are pleasures left unseen,
I cannot draw or sketch in place
a glorious mountain scene,
this path is closed
but I have words
to show where I have been