Beyond the Hungered Canvass

The colors all ran together
A masterpiece
Dripping
To the floor
Like spilt milk
On yesterday’s dreams
Where rhymes
Are but a memory
And nary an open hand
Can rise
Above the quicksand
Yet…
The masterpiece
Remains forever
In the thoughts of the artist
Conceptions of all that is beautiful
In hues
That only she
Has imagined…
She still can see
The heather fields
Beyond the hungered canvass
The sculpture still intact
On potter’s wheel –
But she is not here
To shine the light upon the palette
Nor to etch the crystal vase
With golden grace
Yet the masterpiece
She left behind –
Wrapped tight inside my soul –
Lingers softly in the twilight
Of forever………………………..

Michael33

Poems Upon the Pond

There were poems
Upon the pond
Rhymes across the river
Vestal verses
Too close
To the fire…
Parchment singed
In the silence
Of words unspoken
Pens full of ink
Fractured by time
Untouched
By human hands

Yet poetry still lingers
In the breeze
Through the branches
Of the willow
In songs
Of the sparrow
With the first blush of dawn

But love left in the rain
Has never rhymed
Without the sadness
Nor the madness
Of a poet’s heart
Left alone 
To linger –
In the silence

Michael33

The Rich Child… A Reality

The Rich Child

I grew up a rich child…
Rich in finding ways to entertain myself
Rich in having beautiful thick woods to explore
Behind my house
Complete with two ponds…
A very ummm… rustic treehouse
Crudely nailed to a huge old oak
Where the sound of cougars
Echoed through the night…
I was rich because I grew up
The forgotten middle child
Where I could roam free
And no one would miss me…
I was rich when I walked along
The railroad tracks
And lingered with the hobos
Making camp in the old
Deserted shale pit
Which often provided many hours
Of intrigue for a boy of ten…
Learning so young that life
Was often a struggle
While strangers offered to share
Their only can of beans…
I was a rich child
Because I survived scarlet fever
When I was twelve
Back in the days when there were many
Who did not…
I never could quite rise above the fray
Yet I still learned how to dance
Inside the rain…

I grew up a rich child
Sharing a room with a brother
Four years my elder
Who gave to me freely
The top bunk…
I was enriched with humbleness
With the birth of a sister
Ten years my junior
The ascendant child
In a too crowded world
Of the light
Of the verse
Of the rhyme…

I grew up in riches
With lies of the father
Deceit of the sister
And flight of the brother…
A mother
Who struggled to tend…
But I dwelled in riches
For I was forgotten
And left for the vultures to mend…
But the creatures all gathered around me
And lifted me far out to sea
Where family failed
To look in my eyes
I still found the way to be me…

The Rich Child 33

Remember the Morning

I still remember the mornings
When I would awaken
Unbroken
Ready to face whatever the world
Decided to send
My way
But now the morning always brings
The words I left
Unspoken
Almost as if I’ve had no words
To say
I left behind so many doors
Forever to remain
Unopened
To hide the shadowed grace
From light
Of day
Now it seems through shards of glass
Reflections linger
Broken
Though hues of dawn
Forever
Mend the fray

Michael33

Unveiled

Painting by Betty Bell Sanders

Though her eyes were closed
She could still see forever
Far beyond the doorway
Where she stood
Unveiled to the world
To the angels
In her dreams
Bare feet drawing grace
From the wood

The wicker
The wood
The breeze of the morn
The sunlight
Soft gainst her skin
To feel the embrace
Of the love
In the silence
Washing away
Where she’s been

In the hues of the morn
She could still see forever
Immersed
In the absence of time
Transposing the words
Of a story once told
Creating
A most perfect rhyme

Michael33

Family Secrets

I suppose they had no choice
But to pretend
Though sadness in their faces
Stirred a fateful potent blend

I suspect the family secrets
Never crossed their mortal lips
Except when amber liquids
Shared the night with passing ships

But still there is the fractured ink
Left neath the bottom drawer
And bones that rattle softly
When the wood creaks in the floor

Stories left untold by those
Who passed without a word
Still linger in the gentle breeze
When ere the dust is stirred

Michael33

Writing Rhymes

Writing Rhymes

He never liked to sleep alone
Nor share his thoughts on the telephone
Though solitude held cherished times
He sat in darkness writing rhymes

He liked soft rain upon his face
One step beyond all time and space
Cross frosted fields his diamonds glowed
Lost in dreams ’long lonesome roads

He never liked a crowded floor
Excuses made for starting war
Those of silence neath the flame
When those of shame just pass the blame

He loved the morning hues of dawn
One step beyond where lines were drawn
He loved when shadows danced in mime
While he sat in darkness writing rhymes

Michael33

Dust on the Parchment

Dust on the Parchment

I suppose I could write of the newborn spring
Of the daffodils…
Of the sparrows wings
But who would then write of the broken heart
The lonesome dove
When lovers part

I suppose I could write of lavender blooms
Of a soft gentle breeze
The scent of perfume
But who would then write of things gone wrong
Of the pouring rain
Of sad, sad songs

I suppose I could write of the runes on the wall
When rhymes were like crystal
In times we were small
But who then would write of the words tween the lines
Hidden in lamplight
In laughter and wine

I never should write of the truth in her heart
The light in her eyes
Fore it all fell apart
But who then would write from the blind poet’s pen
With dust on the parchment
To dust in the wind

by Michael33

Growing Old

Growing Old

I guess that I really don’t understand
What happened to the clowns and the marching bands
The rain on my face on a bicycle ride
Believing that dreams never lied

I guess that I’ve always wondered bout time
Where it was wasted and where it all rhymed
I never did listen to ticks or to tocks
While flying my big cardboard box

I guess that I really don’t understand age
Still hiding tween lines of rhymes on the page
I guess I don’t know when it got out of hand
Lost with the clowns
                   And the marching bands

Michael33

Bottles of Wine

Photograph by Amy Watson

Bottles of Wine

Poetry always gives birth to a story
Of life
Of love
And sometimes of glory
Yet the soul often lingers
In truths tween the lines
Neath shadows of moonlight
And bottles of wine

What if the poet just laid it all out
The tears
The sorrow
Truths scattered about
Readers are left without reason to wonder
They’d just feel the pain
The sorrow
The thunder

Perhaps it is best to hide tween the lines
The hunger
The thirst
Kept safe neath the rhyme
Certainly, one day they’ll fall off the vine
Neath shadows of moonlight
And bottles of wine

Michael33