Perhaps God
is a temperamental visual artist,
who is perpetually
dissatisfied with his earthly work,
so he just keeps adding more
bloody paint,
shards of garbage,
and odd designs
to trash the damned thing?
Tag: Creation
saturday
you are lovely
in your late morning robe
my ears have forgotten alarm clocks exist
invited to the table
by a red rosebush
i have tea with my closest ghosts
remembering
god lives in your mother’s kitchen
blueberry bagels are making the tangerines suspicious
i tell them julia child credited her longevity to red meat and gin
a cherry tree trial convenes beyond the window
the robin in the nest
just confessed
she was mae west
in another life
emerson said
poetry begins
when we live
from the center outward
an explosion
which begs the question
How old is poetry?
poetry is as old as
the first trillionth of a second
it is older than the rings of saturn
poetry was there
the moment william shakespeare
learned to write his name
it was the first ivory key
beethoven ever touched
with his chubby baby finger
poetry was present
when da vinci
married mona lisa off
to the renaissance man
it existed within the wooden paint brush
van gogh dipped into the color blue
it is being made dizzy by gillespie
one night in tunisia
poetry is the inch between true love’s kiss
it lives in the shadows creeping across
humphrey bogart’s face
poetry is a bird silently in flight
it is the light in your child’s eyes
poetry is accepting
life is like being at a great party
and nobody knows who threw it
but i have you
your face is my only white dress
without the hands of pretense
or false religions
innocent creation occurs
the veil is torn
exposing a perfect trust
purity of friendship
within a chalice
never wavering
of it’s shine
i will lay open the throat
of colossus
suffering
lifetimes as a statue
to ensure
it is never undone
we shall be ghosts
laughing together
in a corridor some day