Is it you that is fading away from me,
or me from you? All I feel is distance,
a slight loneliness… My days are long
as each mark upon the clock echoes
“Tick… Tock…,” within a maddening
rhythm that never ceases to stop.
I find myself at a loss for words even
worth being said. Both fading further
regardless of which one of us it is.
If you don’t care enough to break the
silence once in a while as I travel our
once parallel track as friends; I guess
you’ve taught me a wonderful lesson of
how much easier it gets to let go and
be even more grateful for the blessings
that surround me still. Giving me an
opportunity to show my appreciation
of those who may not fully
understand me but what matters is
the beauty in the attempt.
Artist Kumi Yamashita
Oceans of waters dancing naked
to the horizon push you beyond me
to the shore I seek. Your love rolls in
with every tide & is dry landed out of
my reach. Like a shipwrecked boat
left to die, your bones show. Almost
drowning out at sea. Each drop of blood
shed is like oil & it seeps back to my
waters; killing me. Craving your love,
I continue to reach further, more swiftly
than ever before watching the moon
as he watches me. As the tides rise I
finally swim across to your shore,
pulling you from the netting until you
give into me. I hold your hand, kissing
you to breathe & to the bottom of the ocean
floor we tumble so carelessly in a love
unknown to be.
David Delamare Art
She complains of her winkles, I do not see.
And talks of her graying hair but its always
been the same to me. She worries over her
weight and the gravity age proceeds but all
I see is the same mom I have always adored.
Beautiful and elegant, not a flaw in my eyes.
Solitary when she reads. Handwritten letters
in the mail every week. Someone who has
stood beside me no matter what hell I endure
or cry. How could I ever deny when a hug is
all she asks, but she knows me so well that I
have always been distant with my grasp….
I love my mom more than anything and what
she has taught me I could never repay, I just
hope when she looks at me she is proud of
the person she sees today.
I have always thought this painting
speaks volumes about our society.
No one hardly wants to be real
anymore so they hide behind a mask.
James Ensor “Self-portrait with the masks” 1899
The sun and moon
were never meant to touch,
to be lovers,
to burn to cinders
in the explosion
of one another’s arms.
Yet their lives are interwoven.
There is a dependency,
a bond, a pull that can only
be quenched in an eclipse.
Meet me there, in dreams.
Lets travel the whole night sky.
Dance upon the moon until
we have to tip toe back down the
stars one by one as the sun peeks
over the eastern shore wondering
what we were up to…
Michelle Blade Art
You said you’d read me like your favorite childhood book.
Cherishing every word as they mimicked a story
you knew so well. While evolving over the years into
something much more. Studying my eyes as the
illustrations of my soul poured out in tears like
rivers you traveled. Yet instead of flowing with the
currents of happiness you forced me to bend my pages
at your will, fraying my already delicate edges, tearing me
apart and leaving me waiting for days on end…
You’d left for good; our book never to be read or cherished
again. I rushed into my study, seeking solace from the pain that
threatened to engulf me whole. My tears blinded me as
I flung myself to the floor before my bookshelf, jarring loose
a book. It fell to my lap like a dove falling dead to the earth,
but perhaps it was more a message of hope than despair. I picked
it up and gave a wry smile. “The Secret Garden”: an unlikable
heroine, and how I could see myself in Mary Lennox and her
circumstances. The book itself, a tattered old paperback, reflected
my life almost as well as the story contained within its battered covers.
Writing collaboration between Jenn Farmer (2nd part) and myself (1st).
This project was a lot of fun considering our different writing styles and I believe it came out wonderfully between the two of us. Hopefully if this is done again we can get more writers to collaborate.
Let my Life not be Prosaic,
but in Everything a Flowing Allegory
to the Next Moonlit Window
of a Falling Star over
My Sea of Dreams.
He was all prepared or so he thought as he perched upon his stool. Right in front of the breathtaking wonders in view. His rickety, old, paint splattered easel in front of him with an almost impenetrable and primed canvas in a soft light ecru. It was brought to perfect tension for his forcible nature to be withdrawn as imposed against the gib. Ready to be constrained by his desires within. Yet he paused….His eyes seemed to be veiled at what he knew logically to be true. His perception distorted as if in a gold-fish bowl and hitting his nose on the dish. He looked at his canvas and blankly stared, questioning his abilities to paint what was there. As he gazed in awe and moans came as gentle mumbles; while the intensity so much that sweat drips from his temples. He picked up his brush and his tray of paint; started with the sky down to the water reflecting below. As the horizon was added along with the surrounding background and clouds above. Sensing someone was watching his every move, he took a deep breath and painted a man looking away so he would again feel alone. His hands trembled as the brush was washed for the final and most crucial part of his art. When he looked again through the bowl, there were old dead trees at the back of the water’s edge, with a woman tied at one and a flag above her head. A boat that had been dry landed. And the haze of the moon shone. Swans gathered in three in the shallow water, as elephants washed at the water’s edge seemly below. Even snakes silvered their way around the water’s edge, if nothing more than for a drink also. His sweating increased as his heartbeat raced; seeing faces when in reality he knew he was still alone. Stuck in a fish bowl of perception, but a becoming awareness that he was feeling numb. Over excited he came in his pants, waking as he fell off the stool. Looking up immediately at his canvas…one line was all he drew.