(From about a year ago. Oh, how time can change our attitude.)
When boredom sets in
I grind the wheel,
sharpen the blade.
A slice into misery
cleanses the soul of food gone bad.
Cold showers only waken the dead.
Random good thoughts spill
like what is the bird thinking
perched outside my window?
I find myself wishing to set sail
and dream of doing,
while I remove my wings so frail.
It is a slow morning
that i watch the old dog pant
as the embroiled sun bakes the ground.
Did I sell my soul too
afraid to drink the water
and recoil at the company in town?
I learned to love to paint. My hands trembled the first time I picked up the brush. The lack of color left my thoughts white and afraid to be coated. Today, as always, I question what my paint palette should be. I wonder what color fancies my heart?
I once dreamed of names for my children in high school, thinking of a man I would marry. So why can I not decide today, what color suits my mind? Does not Calvin weave water into ice cubes and Raina forever lick salt from frothy cheeks? Then my heart should beat blue and spill red.
“Color directly influences the soul. Color is the keyboard, the eyes are the hammers, the soul is the piano with many strings. The artist is the hand that plays, touching one key or another purposely, to cause vibrations in the soul.”
― Concerning the Spiritual in Art
As I watch a day progress to the blackness of mourning,
I sit trembling
horsehair brush in hand
tickling my heart with story
and dreaming of my friend.
Come! witness my dance,
Van Gogh swirls attracting light,
ruminate on everything and nothing.
Rush to the calm! Savor community.
Our wholeness, friends,
gives us flight.
If I stop for a moment all bad will cease. Perhaps I should never move again. Those were my thoughts after John passed. Nothing in this world can replace what he meant to me. But I move on. Reluctantly I accept reality. Yet, I do not believe in endings. Much more will arrive tomorrow. The promise to never cease breathing, as I once chose to die. Every rise of my chest is the testament of mountains. And every slumber the peace of contentment.
Ever feel so heart broken you wish you could fly away and never look back?