Mother: a wax crayon candle in a starless room
You have many layers, like an onion
And you're coloured, but not green
So a wax-crayon candle is favoured here.
Much more poetic.
Although I bathe in the dark
You sit in my corner
Flickering
flickering
like
this.
And you wish not intrude
In your offers of solace.
No.
You don't set my room on fire
You just light up my corner
With the gift of a place to be seen.
A place of security,
Whether I visit it or not.
AND YES, you are loved. YES, you are valued.
(so don't even doubt it)
And yes, your Crayola hues, your mix-n-match
May clash in the eyes of OTHERS
But parallel to even your Converse shoes:
They complement each other
And though I don't always visit this corner...
...Of candlelight in my room,
You should know you're not alone
With my candlelight, too.
amidst the midnight dark,
comes the sleeping dog, that snores/barks;
a mixed up nightmare, no other mammal shares...
coming to age,
written with wax crayon, within neon sprays
of florescent glazes poster board pages...
the need for art,
a chance for chalk;
a walk in the park
music till' dusk
amidst the noonday rage,
lunchers serenades
female co-workers while on lookers...
gawk and look
closing their books, to see what's next
what the heck
the need for art,
sometimes lost, everyone so critical
Brutal the ways of the arts
settle in the newness of dark late night art at the park
2/4/2020
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr. 2020©
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