The artist starved beneath dawn’s cold whisper,
easel tilted, drunk with yesterday's grief.
Paint clung to his fingers like blood,
a palette broken, leaking joyless rainbows.
Each breath was a war he couldn't finish,
lungs collapsing under the weight of color.
Light cracked through the blinds,
half mercy, half mockery,
and the brush trembled in his grip,
a dagger dipped in quiet despair.
Every stroke carved pieces of him away,
his veins screaming for reprieve,
screaming louder than the silence.
Coffee cups gathered dust on the windowsill;
he hadn’t noticed them for weeks.
The room smelled of sweat and turpentine,
raw and sharp as the edge of failure.
Each design stripped him bare,
flesh scraped thin by his own will.
He fought sleep like a boxer with no gloves,
shadows moving faster than his hands.
“Keep creating, keep bleeding,” hissed the echoes,
as if ghosts held the brushes too.
The canvas stared back, white as a corpse,
waiting for its pound of flesh.
He had died seventeen thousand times,
not once with enough left to bury.
The pattern maker measures his guest
neck, shoulders chest, and breast,
arms, back, wrist, waist, hips,
pivots for darts on a block bodice
drafts designer dupe requested
a choice rose-beige mini is invested
on paper made of parchment
a muslin fabric fit first garment
The dressmaker sews the formal
zig zags seam ends, snips as normal
finishing floral, attaching appliques,
the courtier knock off is complete
I get out the chips and merlot
It’s time for the fashion show
He was the maker of lillies, poppies, and tulips
And a host of other eye-catching beauties.
When I met him, I sat at his feet, so facinated
With his amazing feat. And then he said to me,
"I am a rose maker".
Without another word, he reached toward
The sky, and fixation engulfed my eyes.
The elements smiled when he spoke to them
Whereupon they flowed toward him like the
River Nile.
He then gathered the soft and fertile soil, so
Filled with life giving substances. The rain
Agreed to provide water when needed in
Every season.
Air, sun, wind, and the quiet morning dew.
Heat, not cold, like a warm blanket for the soul.
Thriving buds and feeding bees. Thork, Limbs, and green leaves. Color and shapely forms for beauty so soothing to observe.
Thorns and flowers with contrasting purposes.
These all, willing servants of the rose maker,
Created harmony and melody like a well directed
Choir. Then, the rose maker smiled at me as he
Lifted me from my feet.
RICH in color
OUTSTANDING in beauty
SIGHT FOR SORE EYES
EYECATCHING and pleasing
MAKES my day
AND is refreshing to my attitude
KIND and embracing to my soul and
Energizing to the tired and weary
Refreshing like shade on a sunny day
spooky Christmas tree dances in witch Winnie Web's corner
candy bowl with pumpkin spice, sitting next to mourner
red and green candle is glistening with glitter said the bat
who is wearing masquerade mask to fool the hostess’s cat
the trick to being unseen is not dark shared merry ghosts
their grave words were spooky, if you asked the Christmas host
haunted bubble lights on the Christmas tree lit up the room
What five letter word starts with g and rhymes up with broom?
A nail in his thigh, yet onward he goes,
Through fires of labor where no mercy flows.
The crown meant to pierce now hardens to shield,
The pain that once struck becomes what he wields.
The Maker still whispers, “Endure and create,”
While time and the paycheck decide his fate.
He toils through the sparks, through the smoke and the grime,
A martyr of metal, a slave to the time.
Each rusted command, each unspoken demand,
Is forged in his soul by an unseen hand.
Yet out of the ache, the burn, and the bruise,
He shapes a tomorrow he’ll never use.
The maker of man
Is my father
He made us
We are his children
And we can say that he love us
Very much
There is a light that shines inside of us
Let's think only about ourselves
We don't need any people that
Are negative in our lives
We need people that thinks
Positive like us
AIso we need people
That will give us a lift
When we feel sad and depress
They need to put themselves in our shoes
To understand how we feel
I asked him, my friend
Who are the heroes of the world?
He said, "Heroes, the War-Giants."
Alexander to Maj. Gen. Herald Ikiants,
Revolutionaries – Ideologues, Demagogues.” He named.
I quizzed his seminal brain
"What about saviors and saints?"
He was composite and took no strain
To answer my query pains,
“Of course, Saints!”
And he had no feel of hailing
The heroes of war veins
As he believes history’s kneeling
And he trusts in evidence
So scientific and evidence.
"History is past blundrance." I tried.
He only said very firm
"It is evidence."
"Learn from the evidence"-I,
He confirms, he uses occurrence
As he still has a belief
History repeats itself.
He proves again quoting History mischief,
History does not repeat, but rewritten with the dictum
"History is not of warriors but of the makers of life"
The Earth would only say
"How mean you are
Learn from the past errors."
And the children cried out to their Maker
Bless us Lord, we receive Your loving peace
They all clamered 'round about Him
Singing and dancing, the Lord was pleased
They came upon a leper
His body wreaked, his eyes were dim
He dare not raise his eyes to Jesus
He was crippled but he really loved Him
Finally they left, the sun was low
There was chatter, good things had happened
They bragged how Jesus loved them so
In about a week, I'm gonna go see my maker,
an old Italian guy, who left me with my present caretaker.
I need to go see him about my nose,
because the damn thing just grows and grows.
My caretaker says it's because I lie,
but I don't know how seriously to take her.
HANDS
palms rough
nail beds stained
in dark of night
workin' mans hands
they become soft, tender
such contrast, his hands on me
on my soft curves, on silky skin
molding into shapes pleasing to him
meant only for him, I'm adored, worshiped
the late hour of abandon, passion, love
my body so like moldable clay
He, the maker of his desire
these longings, secrets he hides
in the light of day, dawn
when eyes again see
his touch is gone
I love him
for his
HANDS
From victory to victory
Our storyline
As we journey through life
But all glory
To our maker
Making us victorious
In all circumstances.
Glory to thy way maker
Always making a way
For us to be victorious
That's what he's best known for
Leading us to victory
Triumphing over all
That rises against us.
Grace and favor
He's always bestowed on us
Glory to our maker
For ease and effortlessness
All we get he gave
Without hesitating
Victoriously dominating all territory
Glory to our maker for he's our helper.
Lee considered himself the most famous chili maker in the west
Added tobacco, Heinz 57, cinnamon, gave it a big taste test
We had heard about his concoctions, and could not wait.
The first bite was terrible, second bitter, the third one a bad fate.
What about this stew had given him a glowing review?
We could not keep our faces straight; this stuff was a big boo-hoo.
Lee waited expectantly, but none of us play poker.
His terrific chili had been replaced by his wife’s, she was a horrible joker.
When we got the straight stuff, it was worth the wait.
Lee was a fabulous chili maker; his concoction was quite great.
Why did you do that? We asked her, for the why we could not guess.
I was a bit jealous, said his evil wife, Miss Jess.
snow-showy showers
revelations of winter ~
woodpecker knocking
(December Full Moon – Western Abenaki)
Some attribute their breath to nature's sway
Their restroom visits, a natural way
They trust their sleep, an inbuilt alarm to wake
But I, with years of wisdom, know fate's uncertain make
Not all who sleep awaken, nor all who use the loo
Return unscathed, for danger lurks, both old and new
But I, a humble soul, attribute my life's design
To the Maker of the universe, the Author of my rhyme
My talents, skills, and abilities, all gifts from above
My writing, a reflection of His endless, boundless love
The food I eat, the water I drink, the air I breathe
All sustenance from His hand, a daily, merciful deed
The car I ride, the roads I walk, all fraught with peril's might
Yet I, a grateful heart, acknowledge His guiding light
For some have fallen, devoured by life's hungry, savage way
But I, a thankful soul, give praise, come what may
Unto my Maker, I acknowledge and confess
My life, a gift from Him, a treasure to possess
May His name be praised, forever and always
The Maker of the universe, my heart's eternal praise.
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