Grass in shades of green
Snowy fields sparkling sheen
Vault trees offering shade
Mountains giving way to mossy glade
Skies of blue and starry nights
Days of sun rays dancing bright
Morns of glistening dew
Noon’s of billowing drifting cloud
Earth made sweat by drops of rain
And hark to bird songs
I found a little garden in a corner of my mind
It was full of tiny flowers of every imaginable kind
I noticed little buttercups so fragile on the ground
And busy water lilies floated all around
Bold sunflowers seemed to grow straight up to the sky
While carefree, happy daisies were just a little shy
Thorny, velvet roses didn’t let me get too close
And silly, yellow daffodils made me laugh the most
I wondered to myself, “Who cares for these so dearly?”
Then I saw the gardeners so diligent but cheery
They worked all day nurturing their tiny baby plants
They watered, trimmed and chased away annoying little ants
Carefully they pulled the weeds that might harm their precious buds
Never noticing the prickly thorns, the insects or the mud
Then one day, much to all the gardeners dismay
There wasn’t any water and the soil had turned to clay
The gardeners watched helplessly as their little flowers fell
”Can’t someone help us?” “Who can we tell?”
Our daffodils and roses will never be what they could be
And our daisies and our buttercups might even die you see
But no one came with water and no one seemed to care
No one had the answer, it was almost too much to bear
Then I saw a teardrop fall from one of the gardener’s eyes
It splashed upon a tender buttercup just about to die
And the fragile little buttercup who drooped so very small
Began to stand up strong and beautiful and tall
I noticed all the gardeners had teardrops on their cheeks
And it began to look as if it had rained for weeks
Every daffodil and Daisy, every rose and buttercup
Every sunflower and lily started perking up
Soon the entire garden was glistening in the sun
And I began to realize the battle had been won
Was this what tears of anger and despair and fear could do?
Could this really happen? Could all of this be true?
Then I saw the joy on every gardener’s face
These were tears of love, of fear there was no trace
For when it was quite certain the gardeners should do no more
That’s when they so unselfishly gave more and more and more
The gift they gave was precious, one money could not buy
They gave so their little flowers could live and grow and thrive
Though they’ll receive no glory for all that they have done
All that really mattered was that they’d saved every one
Cloudless blue sky, day alive and bright,
Savagely altered into gray night.
A President calmly teaching his flock,
Innocence stolen before nine o’clock.
Towers almost touching the sky,
Cruelly felled as we wondered, “Why?”
Our people, though shattered by the vast devastation,
Were strengthened by Rudy’s determination.
Seeing our President, bullhorn in hand,
Inspired Americans to take a stand.
Old Glory waving proudly from cars East to West,
As our generation would be put to the test.
September Eleventh Two Thousand and One,
An ordinary day when it was begun,
But changed in an instant by that act of war,
When we were reminded freedom’s worth fighting for.
The keen golden-silver blades
of my old uncle’s fine scissors
point eagerly forward
as I trace and cut out
puppets for the children.
How many times he must have
held these gleaming handles,
eased and smiled
as his own stellar scenes
were outlined, clipped into view,
pointing to friends and fellows,
while the strewn-muddled
broadsheets edging his life
fell far from his thoughts.
A luminous hold he gifted me
as he celebrated my childhood
and cherished my growing character,
teaching me the essence of
holding on to scenes of beauty or meaning,
and to the juxtaposition of colors,
and to the coexistence of bewilderment and treasure.
This treasure of his legacy in my hand
outlines the drive to find and form
and reveals a rare tableau
of clarity and grace.
For even when ragged edges remain,
shadows and fringes can be strong.
His absolute love shapes me still.
Spring is dancing with flowers
to gather with colorful showers
rainbow streams
within the orange warm sunbeams
tulips and daffodils
bluebells ring spring
reflections from the good blue sky
within the green valley
natures best alley.
The March wind blows on gray, chilly days
As shriveled, brittle and faded orange leaves
Fall on the softening, tan blades of grass.
Small green buds start to appear
At the end of bare tree branches
And pretty, purple crocus
Begin to grow as their petals
Peek out of the softening soil.
Some days clear blue skies are seen
And others gray skies are the day’s color.
Birds return to sing their beautiful morning songs
As geese come back honking.
The clocks spring forward bringing more light to the day
And the night sky appears much later in time.
While the sun gets warmer and stays with us much longer
Children’s voices shout with delight and
The echoes of “Play ball” are heard
And scooter wheels are rolling fast on the sidewalks and
streets
Spring is back with all of its growth
And life has come full circle.
Like a Furious geyser,
Waiting to explode,
He waits as his head fills with heat
His mind becomes a tempest,
A storm overflowing with rage.
He’s completely taken over.
Dark clouds swirl,
Encasing him deeper and deeper
Into the tantrum,
But it’s more than just that,
It’s pure,
Unrelenting emotion that’s built up.
It’s something that’s never let out,
Never expressed,
Never talked about.
At this point in his life there’s nothing else to do,
But to give in to the tenderness,
To allow himself to succumb,
And feel.
And before he knows it,
A single stream forms down his face,
As she holds him in her arms.
This stream turns into a waterfall,
Not filled with anger, or fury,
But rather relief.
I paint with blue pens and a keyboard that is back lit
I craft my markings on heavy white paper
Or thin pages filled with butterflies or flowers.
These pages are filled with printed letters and others with curves.
My paintings are seen by my eyes first
And then eventually by the eyes of others.
These markings flowing from left to right
As I fill many pages or just one.
When I read, these markings are given sounds and inflections
So that others can hear my different voices.
Ones that may be loud, others that may be screams
Or some that may go up and down like a roller coaster
And the gentle voices that reach from my heart and soul.
I am a writer of poems and essays
That spill from deep within me and pass from my lips.
I share by voice of words with all who will listen
Hoping they enjoy my beautiful paintings to see and to hear
For, I am an artist of words.
Words
cut from the whole cloth
of everyday life
stitched together
with precision
into art
