Tag Archives: poetry

The Artist and the Art

And there she is

Both artist and the art

A smooth glass vase with enticing curves and fetching shades of translucent color

The soft, peaceful light passes through her and shifts,
Twisting in flight like an embolden World War ace
Until, at last, it fills the world with something new and exciting

She engulfs that once empty space with change
With her, deserts spring forth with wild twisted blossoms, garbage dumps grow into folk art collages of rusted metal

She demands THIS NOW to be better, different, unique and made new in her image

And if that fragile vase should tumble to the ground and shatter into a thousand pieces…

You will see the sharp edge that was laying under those silken, glassy lines
And the light, the change, the strange that she embraced
It will still shine from the shards, perhaps better than before

For she is both art and the artist

And there she is

Forever

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I Failed Poetry

When I was in college, Dr. Gold told me that if I really wanted to learn how to write, to find the impact of words, to keep my prose well honed and razor like in their precision that I had to go take a poetry class from Dr. Master.

Dr. Master was an old failed poet. I learned later that the pair were former cold warrior spies that had turned their aging, but still skilled eyes on China. An inordinate amount of Chinese and former Soviet block students were streaming in and out of their offices all the time. The pair were constantly traveling to Russia and China on school business.

I failed that poetry class. Dr. Master basically told me every Tuesday and Thursday that I sucked. He would get irrate if we handed in anything that rhymed at all. He said, “No one writes those poems anymore.”

Oh well. He’s probably dead now and I’m still here. I guess I won, right?

So in the spirit of pissing off Dr. Master one last time…

“In Between”

There is the light and there is the dark.                                                                            

She lives somewhere in between.

She is made of wild sparks and cooling, hard tempered dreams.

She is my laugh.                                                                                                                           

She is my sigh.                                                                                                                              

My blues, reds and greens.

Is all hope lost?                                                                                                               

 Sometimes, yes, it seems..

Because the shine, it comes and goes.                                                                                

She says she’s too tired to keep things polished and clean.

The words she speaks she always means.                                                                        

But maybe she’ll shift and things will gleem — as they should be.

And so, for her, here I wait:                                                                                          

Dieing at the in between.

 

 

Come on, that’s at least C- work, right?

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