Art Sonnet Poems

The final note, a shimmering release,
The dancers still, caught in a frozen grace,
A hush descends, a palpable decrease
Of breathing, held within this sacred space.

No eager...

Read More

In chaos spun, a hidden pattern lies,
A dizzying dance where reason seems to flee,
The artist's hand, where wild invention flies,
Finds form in depths the sane...

Read More

When I'm dreaming, I sometimes fantasize
about opening a box of crayons.
As my subconscious scribbles sapphire skies,
coloring dreams in shades of gold and bronze.

Pastels and vivid...

Read More

As a child, colors weave the way I dream,
Then what I feel and how I perceive.
My humming voice a dandelion stream.
Carnation pink, fairytales I used...

Read More

When days of dreary tropes could feel no duller,
and gray heavens escape my pencil’s reach,
—oh misery!, it can’t be set to speech,—
my crayon box dreams...

Read More

I need a break, a minute’s breath of space;
The furious tempo driving me along, 
a fussy temper, fervent all day long
to strive, stress, toil, scramble...

Read More

The fate of a crayon, it waxes and wanes,
From the engrossing grip of an artist's hand,
To a still life framed in a box of chains,
Where...

Read More

Why Poetry? she muses, sat in front
of paper, staring blankly, lifelessly
at her image.—		and really…, who is she
to ask the page—in a manner so blunt—

to shoulder...

Read More

Flit and dance from flower to flower
Gossamer wings of printed art
Rapturous beauty overpowers
Instilling warmth in my beating heart.
Bold against the drab grey surround
You float unencumbered,...

Read More

In the green garden there's a young lady 

She runs her slender fingers across the fresh lilies' 

The suns soft light licking tenderly at her...

Read More

How fortunate that I, correctly versed,
knew hand-grenades are passive. At their worst,
they maim and kill. But this is interspersed
with usefulness: defenders have no thirst
for carnage....

Read More

The sparring mind requires a venue fit
for wide ambition’s pointed blade—the craze
of poignant poetry’s unbridled wit.—
Masked)by the wily writer’s wire-meshed gaze,

the soul unleashes on the...

Read More

O’ Mother!, take me back at last, receive
—(unclasped arms as vast as mine)—my embrace;
this longing, laughing love, the proof and grace
of my abiding for your...

Read More

how long and sourly sobs the lonely heart
depends on how grave the weight which grieves the tears
pouring from the despondent spirit’s pores.—
a witness, too, will...

Read More

      Like as the waves make toward the pebbled shore,
          ...

Read More