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 Spring
Winds Torment The Iris As They Grow, Blowing Slender Stems To And Fro, Guarding The Paper Wrapped Husk, The Bloom Hidden, Sharp Gust Ridden, To Open Like A Petaled Hand, In Beauty Impossible To Understand.
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 *Sally Rosenbaum* I Lose
Confidence Now And Then, And Have To Begin All Over Again, Fight The Not Good Enough, Let The Words I Know Flow, And Recall The Point Of It All, That These Humble Lines Are Truly Mine, My Sea And Shore, And So Much More Than Nothing.  In
New Mexico, The Wind Blows In A Crust Of Desert Dust, And Hopefully, Our Contraband Lawn Grows. It’s A Reckless Life Out Here, Mountain High, Dangerously Dry, And Useless Labor To Discipline The Steady Winds, But In Spring, The Futile Task Never Ends.  *BANKSY* Old
Books And Letters, Worn Shoes And Sweaters, All Become A Waste Of Precious Space, And Inevitably, Lose Their Place. Memory Is An Index File, Out Of Sequence, Worn From Frequency, Stashed In A Drawer, Pressed Under The Floor, Becoming More And More Words To Say, And Never Going Away.  Climbing
Up The Broken Hill, Loose Shale Underfoot, And Across A Winding Rill Gone Dry, Under A Cloudless Sky. I Slipped And Slid, But Made It To The Rock Strewn Top, The Land Far Below, And I Have Come To Know How Truly Grand It Was To Stand There In The Clear Air, The Triumph Brief, The Risky Journey Down No Real Relief.  *The Noon Table* 48" X 36" Oil On Linen Take
Time To Break The Crust Of Should And Must, And Squeeze From Every Hour A Precious Scrap Of Will Power, To Catch The Vagrant Thought, Eschew Duty, And Do What You Ought. The Only Worthy Goal Is Work To Nourish Your Soul.  On
This Vernal Holiday, Good Chocolate Egg To You And Yours, And I Beg, Marshmallow Goo Will See Us Through The Antique Sacrifice With Baskets Of Jellybeans And Drinks On Ice, Whatever The Celebration Means. |
AuthorJeanette Collins Archives
August 2024
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