I woke from sleep and looked outside today
to see that spring has sprung from infancy,
grass still wearing some snow like a toupee
and squirrels that are all but finicky.
I try to process all this imagery,
but my emotions are over my head,
so I sit in bed and smile wistfully.
I could be forthright with what should be said
and risk that it is misinterpreted,
or I could keep it in and let it go
and watch the opportunity lie dead.
Each spring a rose must bloom to be full grown
and blossom for everybody to see,
it's time I show the world who I can be.

She wove a picture of glory with her hand
Each thread showing the colors of nature
To behold her attributes so grand
All the features making for allure
Her beauty ever so astounding to sight
Blue of sky stretching o'er the vast terrain
Pristine snows covering mountains of height
Red soils spanning across the open plain
So splendidly embroidered our globe
With hues of green in the vegetation
Floral shades sewn through this gorgeous robe
Truly stupendous of decoration
Our planet possesses so many fine tints
She is a wonder of such divine glints

http://hellopoetry.com/search/poems/?q=Betterdays



as is my wanton wont,
when stumbling
upon a new voice,
the passed baton
is herein handed off

am old man.
my poetic voice is just
memories that are
repetitive lies and lines.

speak in simple sentences declarative.
this is nature's way.

darkness approaching is indeed my
au courant poem, mon actuellement.

I have seen better days.

I have read betterdays.

now I am upset, distraught.

here come another young
hot bright votive voice,
and I am being asked to believe that there are
still words that raise hopes of
betterdays.

her bed chip crumbs, delighting,
leave crumbs of pleasure in my soul.

l like her big word poems,
that leave me, fill me by:
siphoning all in a parched gluttony
leaving behind a viscous residue
and few glassine portals
into a reflective world

better yet I love her
mothering little god poems,
letting me remember little boys
who once loved a father

little god love
radiant is thy smile,
smallboy love, exudes from you,
like a flower god's nectar,
bestowed, with negligent love,
upon a mother's world.
i will drink my fill,
everyday, whilst i can,
for far to soon will you
grow up.

don't speak eastern Australian,
tackers and doona's, no clue,
blue cats are a foreign breed,
but the cat of this starfish mother,
shares my literary tastes:

him, nestled,
on the second, to
uppermost stay,
of the third
bookshelf,
in the study.
he has filed
himself,
between,
ogden nash
and proust
and it is there,
he plans to stay.

let me not go on and in deeper, lest
I delay you from her pleasuring
thy tasted untested senses.

so here I am all grumpified
(at my age, you can make up your own words)
unsure if un or satisfied,
knowing that a woman,
word whips me into a
soothing frenzy of creamy
morning coffee verbosity,
a captive taker of life's
ungrandest moments,
poems of them,
make to glory come.

somewhere in the world,
a woman writes of plain goodness
of simple strife and simple lives,
makes methinks that there could be
betterdays still ahead,
better poets surely, than me,
and the day starts well

for my friend, the artist,
Ayesha Joy Burkey

the answer simplest,
is there any other way?

we paint, fashion jewelry,
even human beings,
for and from
wire, stone, DNA,
and paint

our harshest critics,
ourselves,
always we busy saying,
not good enough

so South Dakota,
breathe release,
let one whom,
you have never
in flesh seen,
see you through
the ten plagues,
to a promised
answer~land

long have I searched for my
flawless poem,
knowing it my be
my next one,
each a doorway
to the next

this one,
and the
one before,
never good enough,
keep the essay going,
in fourth gear

so South Dakota,
in hot springs,
salve and be saved,
rapid city breaths exhaled,
in Jerusalem,
see the deal sealed

breathe release,
read out loud,
for hereby,
and nearby,
your voice must join me,
in this semi-silent
collaboration to make
this solo poem
into a
partnered painting
all yours,
your very own

can't you believe,
the mere question
you posing,
within,
the answer,
reposing...

The creation act,
frailties fraught,
what we design,
never good enough

but we paint on,
for the paint,
when eyes embraced,
says
a piece of my grief
herein encapsulated,
and so on and on,
to the next,
thus it's entirety
lessened,
one step closer
to diminished

you, grief painter
right hand cunning,
me, grief writer,
lest we forget,
through our art,
that even if our
words fail
our tongue, the ears,
to comprehend,
to communicate,
to convey,

but the eyes
they,
cannot be denied,
eyes,
that have gazed upon your
painting prayer

Of course you heal,
tikun (repair) of your world,
in every brush stroke,
you answer,
sufficient,
dayenu,

and then you
Restless Painter,
ask again, and answer,
af p'aam lo maspiq,
never good enough,

and I say it once more:

can't you believe
the mere question
posing,
within, the answer,
reposing...


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Two small paintings are part of a number
I did as an assignment
when I went to stay with my son.
One of his OCD symptoms  
is seen in a difficulty to get through doorways.  

When I showed the collection of work
to my teacher she said  
"do you realize you are painting open doorways?"  
And indeed, the motif was there
whether abstract or realist.  

Can one heal a child through paintings?
Or one's grief at being helpless to change things?"
A.J. Burkey

150 down a main road
Ditched the 5'O
*******, angry
Him running his mouth's
the only music playing

Different dealers on hold
Oh baby, please don't lose control

I've gambled makin money (in not so good ways) lots in my time,
& each time I did it, made myself a pretty dime
But this round fella's
This games gettin old
Drop my cards to the table
I'm out
I fold.