Homeward bound
Ash on ash
Phoenix doth not fly there
~ ~ ~
Tinsel
Artists self-ordained,
them their own fair critics
suck acclaim from their whores
applaud their dance
amidst blazing light
cast a center stage
awash in smoke and haze.
~ ~ ~
Bliss
Morning charcoal wakes them with her silent fury.
Tawny finch and cardinal friends compete for crumbs.
Ceiling fan quiet still its dusty blades stalled up there.
Nature gentle whispers tender soothe the aged oak.
Rolling doors bang, slam and howl down at the tracks.
Them on motored rubber dare the signal cries out red.
Sirens scream like arrows pierce billows toward the smoke.
Angel five on her birthday skips merry off to school.
~ ~ ~
Brushstrokes
She drew me
in her picture
in colors would not run.
I watched her eyes
atop her canvas and
though ’twas not for me to see
what she drew there,
’twas through her eyes
I knew the colors.
~ ~ ~