I am a quiet, silent man,
Dwelling deep within myself.
What I long to say aloud,
I pour into a letter’s shell.

She, playful, fleeting like the breeze,
All that I express in words,
She replied with a single image,
And spoke with her eyes unheard.

How beautiful those nights once were,
What magic lived in those old days!
Today again, my heart desires
To send you a letter… always.

But this time, through an artist's hand,
This letter shall reach your grace.
Some words of the heart remain unsaid,
That only colors can embrace.

To the painter I make one humble plea
When you read my letter’s line,
Sketch her soul upon the page,
And let her truest face shine.

Let us see
If my words still hold the weight
Of truth, of ache, of silent grace.
And if she, when the artist paints,
Still wears that same beloved face...
Or was it all just well-performed
a role she played through posed displays?

I found a new color
In the space around your face
seemed like it wasn't real
And held my gaze, a spell

How could I tell

Had it always been there
Or was I unaware
That the windows I saw
were just portraits on a wall
To keep my mind astray
For another day

Well that day came
And took me along
Out the door, the windows gone

Blue green black
Softest of reds
Brightest of white
Darkness of coal

Well I was lost
In a strangers world
Only just recognized
I'd been a fool

How could I have painted
A whole new world
Whithout the shade or hue
That comes from you

Blue green black
Softest of reds
Brightest of white
Darkness of coal

dark night
a cabin deep in the jungle
raindrops whispering
on leaves
on the rooftop
on everything
soft steady like an old lullaby
and I’m sitting here
by the dim light
yellow and flickering
writing a poem
about you
for you
because you are near
not here
but near
somewhere in the sleeping village
and that’s enough tonight

by morning
you’ll come
you always do
you’ll open that wooden door
it will creak just right
like a story beginning again
your footsteps will press into the wet fragrant soil
and I’ll hear them
before I see you
and I’ll know
without looking
it’s you

how timeless it feels
how classic
this quiet expectant night
like a paused breath
like the world waiting too

is this a poem I write
or is it one
time is writing through us
without asking

maybe we are not the writers
maybe we are the lines
being drawn
slowly
tenderly
by the brush of this moment
a painting
time never finishes

and maybe
that’s the beauty of it

“There’s a cow at the table,” I whispered, not wanting to be rude.
It’s horns curled like question marks, which seemed quite Apropos
Now that I’ve been to college, I can tell you, there’s a lot that I don’t know.
But a cow at the table, no matter how well dressed, left me, well, confused.
“How do you Dooooo?” I offered, friendships should begin straightforwardly.
When it didn’t answer, I thought, “Well this friendship’s starting off awkwardly.”
Was it hard of hearing? I wondered. “Have you mooooved here recently?” I asked, loudly.
Again, nothing, it just sat there proudly. Did it take my attempt at dialect, as a sign of disrespect?
“Would you like some fooood? I asked, “Some hay maybe?” I was guessing, but it was a guest.
Some friendships start out slowly, but holy-moley, was this livestock trying to troll me?
After some aggravation, and impatience, it turned out to be an elaborate, fraternity initiation.
.
.
*Based on Leonora Carrington’s painting “Then We Saw the Daughter of the Minotaur.”
https://www.moma.org/artists/993-leonora-carrington

I like music?
Writing is good too.
But music is the best,
I like listening to the records,
As they spin.
Art is nice too,
I like to paint.

Blank canvas,
A bucket of paint,
I took that bucket,
And I chucked it.
Green blues until,
I had a landscape of Nantucket.
I threw the paint,
And just said '---- --'

Let your true colors shine brightly
as you wear them with pride.
Spread your colors across yourself,
your surroundings, your life!
Let your personality be itself,
regardless of the words of others
or the criticism of those who don’t
love you! You should love you!
In every messy stage, in every
dull moment, and in every bold move,
love yourself! For you are a painting,
my love! As both art and artist,
become your own creation. We are here
to admire the beautiful masterpiece
that the artist intended along with every
glorious mistake and mishap
that made its way into the final piece!
You are a painting, my love.
Create yourself.

The look on her face is longing.
A subtle pout. Distant eyes.
She looks out the window at the sunset.
Yet another day spent quietly alone.
Plans were made to end the quiet.
Those plans were canceled. She longs
for community, connection, camaraderie.
She wishes for acceptance and empathy.
Alas, she must open the door
to welcome in such things.
So she sits on the floor.
With longing painted on her face.