Silken Tongue Poets eschew the Pedantic
Masters of Imagination Create Fantastic
Poets of Masterly Craft and Imagery
Like Don Bouchard, Joe Cole and Me
Wolf spirit aka quinfinn also added in
These poets and More, will Proclaim
That Mastery of Imagination Can Reign
Tales will be told, of times of Old
Poets will take you to Magical Places
Among the treasures you will find Gold
Poetesses will spin tales of Love and Woe
And you might even meet a UFO
Poets will Stumble From Irish Pubs
For Deeds of Valantry Knights be Dubbed
Or Stars May Fall from the Universe
The Craft and Mastery will be diverse
So this is your invitation to our World of Creation
By Artisans of the Craft and the Masters of Imagination,

A  Collection for the Masters of Imagination,
The True Craftsmen of the Arts.
Come see where Imagination Shines...Shamus

I will never understand artists.

They move, beholden to the dictates of an unseen master, in ways that I can't fathom.

They produce works which I could not create, do so for a cost that I wouldn't pay, and roll with highs that I can't imagine.

All in all, I know they are different. That's easy to say now, but much harder to say when you are with an artist.

Artists are attractive. Free, confident, focused, and talented: what's not to love? If an artist takes you as their muse, you become part of the process, which at first seems amazing.

You get to be part of the creation of something bigger than yourself! Then, you realize that you are the emotional equivalent of a paintbrush for the artist; a disposable tool. That makes the whole thing seem less amazing.

Artists are devoted to their art, that's what makes them special. It's also what makes you less than special to them. You can be around when it helps the process, but make no mistake, when it doesn't help the process, you are out.

Commitment to an artist is nothing in comparison to craft. They have to produce; it's their life. So, really, I can't blame them (ok, I really mean that I can't blame her) for not behaving normally.

They never said they were normal. Why did I expect otherwise?

Every Part
        *Every Stroke
                  Every Line
                           Every Curve
                                    Every Shape
           to start somewhere
                   and everything else
                                        will follow.


*© Pax

My love, I still remember my pledge to you
That I will love you till the end
That you will be here forever in my heart
The color of my canvass
The notes of my songs
The lines and verses of my poems
The beauty of my photographs
The story of everything I do
because of you

I renew my vow
I recall my promises
Let us heal the wounds of our past
The times I attempted to forget you
The times I decided to leave you

Now is the realization, my love
I love you with all of my heart
You are everything that I do
You are the color to my world
My life won't be complete without you

Let us forget the past, my love
Hear my songs again
Stare at my photographs
Look at my paintings
Read my stories
Recite my poems

You are there...
In everything that I love to do, you are there
I can't hide the truth
You are  a part of my life
And I need you to be whole

I renew my vow
I'll be with you 'til the end,
       my beloved ART

Stop trying to waste your time, analyzing their lies.
It will leave you in a straight- suit: Suited, ready to die.
That's why you being real, is the only real hope,
Real has at, really staying alive.
So don't let them **** your vibe.
The art needs your craft to survive.
These characters needing your mind,
The sheets are feinding for you lines.
These rhythms need your rhymes.
The game needs your heart;
So the art form will be loved until the end of its time.
I need the real thing;
Purest of its kind,
Coming straight from the heart
Spoken from the mind
With real penmenship; word smiths-
Sharper than a thin line.
Quick witted; Stanzas that
Stand, hand-in-hand with mine.
Inspired by emotion; immortalized;
within lines. Talent is a gift;
Being gifted is a prize - and experience never lies.

Lost to backdrops scrolling past,
She sits knitting
in the carriage of a train.
The vague needles
They scintillate and glimpse
With the cadence of the wheels –
Upbeating ceaselessly.

Strips of tiny loops
And eyelets like dewdrops
Of condensation
Grouped on the superior rim.

Once in a while,
She gives a heave
To loosen more yarn from the skein
Of Filipino-made wool,
brushed worsted weave.
Spun and carded
from the richest fleece,
Deeper in the wicker basket by her feet.

The needles flash,
With ancient rhythms and attack
Of duellists in their chainmail coats.
With little hesitation she can tack
From plain to purl to blackberry.
Count back by rote or slip a stitch
While the fish-eyed gimlets gleam.

All gather profusely in her lap,
As windfall trove, rich-patterned
And warm with peach-fuzz nap,
All crafted from a single line of yarn.
Marvels fall continuously from wise
Spell-binding hands and all is well for now.

(9/11/13 @xirlleelang)