In the boundless skies above, where stars in silence gleam,

We are made of heaven’s breath, in every heart’s true dream.

Born of cosmic stardust, in the tapestry of night,

We carry the celestial spark, within our inner light.

In the laughter of the morning, in the whisper of the breeze,

Heaven’s touch resides within, in moments such as these.

Through the trials and the triumphs, in joy and in despair,

We find the traces of the stars, in all we do and share.

Our spirits are but echoes, of a universe so grand,

We are made of heaven’s grace, by nature’s gentle hand.

In every act of kindness, in every loving glance,

We reveal the threads of heaven, in our human dance.

We are more than flesh and bone, more than earthbound clay,

We are born of endless skies, in the light of a new day.

In our dreams and aspirations, in the love we freely give,

We are made of heaven’s wonder, in each moment that we live.

So let us shine with all our might, let our spirits soar,

For we are made of heaven’s heart, forever and evermore.

In the vast expanse of life, where stars and souls align,

We are made of heaven’s essence, in the depths of the divine.

My mind is calm,
Empty,
But not in the way I cherish.
The whiteout is blank,
Motionless,
The water on a still lake.
I long for the storms,
Rivers,
Rainfalls of inspirations.
Instead,
All I get,
Is c a l m

Just a girl with
All the colours of the rainbow
Flickering behind her eyes.
The dullness of masks,
Of confusion,
Dulls the shine.
But when you look deeper,
Into her soul,
You see it brightening.
Ideas weave through like a river,
In the grassy fields of thought.
You see the hopes, the dreams, the fears,
Planted like seeds.
When she smiles,
The room lights up with the joy,
The sincerity,
Of the girl painted with all the colours of life.

He knows how to observe the heron
in the twilight’s lonely inclusion-
this blue dream that could vanish
in flight if drawn too near—
head, eyes, ears pulled forward
following the flow of fish ahead
until it vanishes from his sight
behind a screen of slender reeds.

Feed your starving soul,
Let inspiration flow.
Thus you slip away;
Don't wait another day!

Capture every glance.
Still the water's dance.
Freeze the hands of time;
Your Spirit needs to shine!

Look now through the glass.
Don't let the moment pass.
Starving soul, feast on,
Before your spark is gone!

©KSS 11/2014

a petal wafts through the fields;
as though a cradle for the morning dew
forged by winter’s labour.

the flower remains anonymous.

fear is an illusion that feels more real than life itself, at times. scores of artists have succumbed to the despair brought upon by the fear of overexposing themselves. you know them - the writers who won’t write - the painters who won’t paint - and the sculptors who won’t get their hands *****. maybe you’ve even met one or two. or know someone close to you who might be of a certain poignant disposition that’s impossible to ignore. if not, perhaps it’s time to have a closer look at the mirror.

it’s true that those who dare to traverse the forest of the unknown must encounter the beasts that lurk in the darkness. some are benign. some are malevolent. at first, you’re terrified of them all. but as you go farther and deeper into the forest, you soon realize that they’ve become some of your dearest friends, despite all the wounds you’ve inflicted upon each other during your skirmishes. you learn to tame them, feed them, and eventually, cage them. yet after all this, the question, or rather, the fear remains - can you ever bring them out into the real world? and more importantly, what would they do to your mind if you do?

a scary thought for many artists, indeed.

but perhaps these ‘beasts’ may not be as bloodthirsty for our spirits as we might think. perhaps, it’s about how we personify them in our minds. there’s a beautiful poem by charles bukowski called ‘bluebird’ that speaks exactly of this fear, and perhaps even offers an antidote. it immortalises the little bird in the writer’s heart, a rather benign beast, that sings every now and then, unafraid, and in spite of what its captor might think, or feel, or do. it reminds us that it’s okay to let the bird sing every now and then - because it will - and not let it die so finally. it implores us to not sacrifice it at the altar of perfection, but rather be gentle with its humble feathers.  

something i believe we could all do with our own little bluebirds.