There
Is
Passion,
There
Is
Art,
But
Everyday
Reason
Threatens
To
Sweep
Dreams
Away
And
Leave
Only
Silence.
Still,
We
Strive
To
Write,
To
Paint,
To
Sing,
Free
Of
Constraint
And
Devil
Time,
To
Fashion
Another
Story,
One
More
Image,
One
More
Rhyme.
Where
There Is Passion, There Is Art, But Everyday Reason Threatens To Sweep Dreams Away And Leave Only Silence. Still, We Strive To Write, To Paint, To Sing, Free Of Constraint And Devil Time, To Fashion Another Story, One More Image, One More Rhyme.
0 Comments
Though
Not Long, The Music Pierces My Soul With Arrows Of Song, Every Loss And Gain Captured In The Lyrical Refrain, All Of Time Contained, Every Strain Alive With Hope And Pain, And I Listen Over And Over Again. My
Kitchen Is A Treasure Trove Of Dust. I Really Must Clean The Stove, A Drove Of Spills Decorate The Inner Works Where Oils Lurk, But What A Drag To Toil With My Pail And Rag. I’ve Got Better Things To Do, I Require A Cleaning Crew, That’s All I Ask, To Spare Me From This Tiresome Task. But There’s Always More. After That, I Ought To Mop The Floor. In
The High Desert Park, A Spangle Of Stars In A Tangle Of Gaseous Galaxies Pass In Review, Spinning Through My View Ancient And Ever New, To Make Bright The Cobalt Night. That
Night, Because Of The Rain, I Was Late For The Train, And Watched Its Light Fade From Sight. I Waited In The Ozone And Rust, The Oily Dust On The Track Grimy Black, Caught The 9:10, And Never Went Back There Again. In
Late October The Garden Still Blooms And Sunshine Fills The Morning Rooms, But Old Man Winter Distantly Looms, To Steal Away These Summery Days. The Constant Sun Keeps The Southwest Warm, A Welcome Charm Against The Cold As This Troubled Year Grows Old. I’m
Making The Scene This Halloween. No Kids Come To Our Door Anymore, But That’s Okay, There’s Candy Galore At The Grocery Store, And As Proof I Care, I’m Eating My Share. Two Bags Of Butterfingers And A Rather Forlorn Sack Of Candy Corn Have Been Consumed Until I Almost Have No More Room. What Can I Say? The Holiday Is Still Two Weeks Away. What
Can Poetry Mean But A Feeling Seen? What Is Prose, But Feelings Both Seen And Heard, Then Captured In A Precious Word? What Are We But Our Cherished Expression, That Written Confession Of How In Life We Would, If We Only Could? Couple
Of Hot Blood Rich Studs Are Invading Space. Gee, What A Gift To The Human Race, Giant Egos Pointed Toward Venus In A Chubby Ship Shaped Like A Penis, And Maybe On To Mars, To Rape The Very Stars. Thank God The Fools Don’t Get That Far At All, And Back They Fall To The Earth They’ve Created, Deathly Sick And Torn With Conflict. The
Wind Rushes In With A Shout, To Bend Tree Branches And Turn The Leaves Inside Out. To The South, An Approaching Hurricane Will Flood Mexico With Rain. To The North, Heavy Snow Will Blow Down The Rocky Mountain Chain. I Stand Between On My Patch Of Sand, As Winter Weather Grips The Land With A Pitiless Hand. |
AuthorJeanette Collins Archives
August 2024
|