In the days of old Storytellers traveled far and wide Plying their trade at hearth and square Sharing tales true and mythical Of heroes and villains Triumph and tragedy Honing the sharpness of their wordplay Weaving captivating tales for coin Where are the bards of today Spinning tales for the eager
I host a phantasmagoria of storytellers Tucked neatly into my pocket Poised to share hours of narration For an audience of one A tap a screen whisks me away Into a plethora of elaborate worlds Thousands of hours of storycraft Read by hosts of skilled modern bards Memoirs and poetry Worlds fictional and factual Could the traveling rhapsodist In their pre-modern world Dare dream of such wonders As the miraculous audiobook
I want to splash the darkening sky with rivers of fire Purples and reds and luminous oranges of sunset And the waters will abstract my painting in its dark mirror surface Making an abstract of my realism A dream of my reality
Roses and rust and rivulets of blood Rubies and robins and radiant flame Victory red lipstick of defiance Red flesh of cool plums in summer Winking red of garnet facets in grandmothers' rings Washington Reds hanging from autumn apple trees Red hand prints representing the missing and murdered Blinking red lights lining dark empty streets Red dresses whipping and swirling to tango on stages Crisp red uniforms of Beefeaters on guard Red sports cars cruising the streets of LA Cardinal red of Stanford Sports Crimson Red and Columbia Blue of my high school Cherry red inside a pie Glossy candy apple red Ripe red strawberries perfuming summer picnics Enflamed red of flushed cheeks Sacred menses red Red haze of rage blurring vision Bruised red of kissed lips Fruit punch red staining faces Watermelon red dripping from hands Red wine glowing in glasses Berries bright red in winter snow
Spring has arrived Birds sing sweetly In quickening branches bursting with blooms My winter soul peers out of bleary eyes Before I pull the covers over my head
I am no poet I am an observer A curious wallflower Peering into the places most do not dare The voyeur blending in and watching Keenly aware of the scene and vibe
I am no poet I am a witness A lyrical historian Peeling back the layers of what is obvious Making note and taking measure Commenting on the beauty and the bruise
I am no poet I am a documentarian A mental photographer Describing the visage of the soul Capturing the form of feeling Casting light on dreams
I am no poet I am an illustrator A linguistic artist Scratching lines on paper Forming images from curves of ink Building portraits from words
I am no poet I am a woman A single breathe in the wind Performing no obvious magic Sharing the same life experience Human and divine
Isn't it funny how carpenter bees think themselves no less dainty than honey bees? They faithfully believe the flower will support them even when the stem bends toward the ground. They aren't exactly wrong.
Here is you bear All worn from love Or perhaps adorned with it Your partner in your slumbering adventures Defender against all that scares you It is your beacon in the darkest night It's felted heart doused in the Nostalgia of your mother's perfume Tangible reminder of lingering embraces That will greet you again in the light of morning Goodnight my little bears Hold each other tight
I am looking for the counterpoint to my melody A voice both hauntingly harmonic and intriguingly independent That when blended with mine creates a masterpiece
Words Wishes and Wisdom 