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I think
as artists
we owe a lot to pain.

Put on
a robe of thorns
and write

about the nice weather outside
and that delicious burger
you had today.

Write about happiness
when you're in pain-
beauty.
I grew up
by the seashore
Never learning
how to swim
Saw sunrise
turn to sunset
As the lazy waves
turned in

Years of watching
the horizon
Spent changing
with the tides
The ocean breeze
still pulled me home
The deep blue
still mystified
Where the sunlight splashes through
The barely moving branches of the Magnolia tree
It makes a fascinating pattern on the patio.
Amy Lowell wrote of patterns in a lovely, angry verse
When she was writing about how she hated war.

I bend to trace the patterns with my toe
And focus on the possibilities of now
With monster canons rolling down the boulevards
And goose-step imitators marching by
While in the stands a devilishly evil Buddha smiles.

A zephyr gently stirs the leaves
And all the patterns rearrange again
I look at them with half closed eyes
And I can’t find the symmetry
That I saw just an hour ago.

The Kraken still is held by chains
And though he gushes fire and venom
The patterns on the wall contain him
As he thrashes to replace the sun
With a new one of his own creation.

Amy walked a peaceful garden path
In dappled sunlight long ago
Creating lines that live today.
I trundle down a brick-lined walk
And hope that I will have tomorrow.
                         ljm
An ode to little rocket boy and Bozo
What other kind              of creature could divide        
        Each different thing             into its different sides                
  With chaos versus             order, dark and light
The stark duality of         wrong and right
We even split the very        world in two
With human versus human,       we and you
But still no matter how much      we divide
Each thing has infinitely many      sides
 Mar 2018 Terence James Potter
r
I remember this girl
who went to the window
at dawn when it was still
dark in the winter and she
sees we have a long time
now that her father passed on
and we know we won't have to
go to school because the bus
it can't run, she slips her slip
over her hair and places it over
the chair near the fireplace
while I unlaced the sinew
of my boots, I remember it
well how we lost our cherry,
it was hard as a rock, like
breaking a wild horse, it was
a mirage of sound as the blood
moon sunk into the frozen ground
and I realized that the times
we can bat our eyelids, and
all of our nights and tomorrows
are not infinite, like love that comes
only once in a lifetime of sorrows.
she was not fragile like a snowflake.
she was fragile like a bomb.
and i didn't know which was scarier-
                                                        ­  her explosion or her calm.
part 2
Last night,
my thoughts were  of the coming days
i got up even before dawn
preparing to face tomorrow.

everything about tomorrow
is on the table...like a briefing on what to
expect...souls awaiting...sunny, stormy days
newly sprouted worries, and old ones that
refuse to go...food talks...pride...errands,
the good and the bad...everything,
all arranged on a platter.
it's like reading a big book...filled with
nows...yesterdays...and tomorrows..
thick with pages that turn fast, or slow,
pages that are bright, unwrinkled,
others are flapping...twisted, crumpled,
even torn......depending on the wind,
which could be breezy...or gusty.

some pages bring long-lasting smiles
some are too wet with tears
some cause a blink...once, twice, or thrice;
a brief way of escaping...yet,
truths are there when eyes open again.

we ponder over the pages skipped,
for clarity...for closure...not for turning back
there's no other way.......but ahead...
....like the wide and endless freeway,
painted lines divide lanes...define direction
...explaining continuity...moving forward,
no matter what.......because,
tomorrow
always comes

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Sally

Copyright January 8, 2018
rrab
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