To rest, a lumbering Whale
slumbers within a dissmal
green foggy depth of the
shadowiest waters.

Sleeping now, an
unawareness
but also cause for
That from which to awaken. ...

The task to rise for a
breath still,
Magnificent size,
its shape imploring -

Where life grants itself
from the essence
of which to it
also plays.

Creativity flows through me
It bleeds from my words
Oozes from my actions
The way I walk
The way I move
The way every random thought I have comes together
To form a masterpiece like this one
Where writing a poem takes just a minute of my time
I write what I think and it doesn't have to rhyme

Some of the truest things are found,
where everything is NOT.

But this lie existing, incomparable
to what it does
as what counts.

My heart bleeds colours
but not the way you'd think
it drips

R
       A
                I
                        N
                    ­             B
                                       O
                                              W
               ­                                        S

through my veins
a
CACOPHANY
a
SYMPHONY
a
disdainful loss of my dignity.






Yes, my heart bleeds colours
I can no longer wear it on my sleeve
for all to see
the dazzling display that leaks



For such a heart as mine,
that appears so vividly black
I find it quite amusing,
for there certainly is a lack of

FEELING
and
EMOTION
coursing through my veins

and yet when it bleeds
THE COLOURS FLOW AGAIN

I've blue and yellow, mix to make green
Pink and purple
make the circle,
a full rainbow it would seem

Oh my heart bleeds colours
I am now no longer clean
for all my colours have started
seeping out my seams.

I’m tired
my body seems to be telling me
to go to bed and sleep
but I know I couldn’t,
for this poem is lurking inside
and won’t be denied
as much as I try.

Can poems be found in the tired
in the brain of one who’s wired
to look here and there and everywhere
like the bird perched atop the chair
in the backyard, its head swiveling to and fro
watching for cats or humans or hawks flying low?

I guess I shall see if there is a poem taking flight
here and now teasing twilight
will it swoop and settle in my mind
will my muse become archly inclined?
Or maybe I’ll dwell on that attentive bird
and in that dwelling find the words
and take a lesson from the throat of its being
breaking forth in its flight or its singing.

Is there a verse down there I’ve been saving
while the sapling Tallow is waving
saying goodbye to the dying day
dancing the wind in ***** ballet.
Is there a line
in the recesses of time
between vital concerns
and issues that burn?

I hear the cello’s refrain
playing nearby in mournful bane
it takes me back to practicing Strauss
on the piano, filling our house
with dissonance and verve
getting on my mom’s last nerve.
But oh how music flourished and reigned -
the joy in my soul could not be contained.

Thinking of what music has meant to me
and composed in me a sweet symphony
brings me alive here in this sacred space
replaces fatigue with energy and grace.
I stayed here long enough to find
these wisps of memory and rhyme
that so often provide the spark
to lift and fly me out of the dark.