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swirling prolific hues of green envy and
passionate reds
imprints of individualized
thumbprints echo the softness of her chest.
her stained clothes, a memorial of
shed blood and crusted tears.
methodically, each stroke
larger than the last. shaded memories
dusted with charcoal. empty delights
cross-etched in blended fingertips.
the room, empty. a hollowed portrait
fits in the solace in which the artist lives.

systematic soul surrender.

does she long to be the
hidden message in impressionism, the
genius of Rodin the talk of the Louvre,
the troubled artist in which tragedy ends
fulfilling afterlife in the thief of the night's kiss?

brush stroke.

pain supersedes heliotropes
vision a circumcised catalytic
imprison, raw theft of
stolen pieces and framed genius lay hung,
genius on a white wall.

tip. tap.

coarse fibers dance in shallow water
mixing royal purples and optimistic yellows.
her favorite color: black.
it begs to be painted upon.
desires to be another color, in another life-
jealous of its white counterparts
pixelated on firm canvas outstretched
in stapled wooden corners.

the water turns grey.

time for a change. fill the tin cup
with aqua white of clear water
dreamed in oceans of Tahiti
tropical waters left unseen.

shifting lazily, she turns in the empty room hastily.

her broken solace irritates her.
motivates her.
captivates her.

was Michelangelo too tired
to change his dipping water for paints
ensuring a masterpiece was
not molested in unforgiving colors
that did not want to be painted?

the room echoes.

a slow start of shuffling feet embrace the faucet,
cold fingers touch the white knob labeled "c",
chrome embellished turning dusty grey-
speckled droplets of paint.

go back.

re-visit. re-learn. re-vise.

interrupt and improvise the
cool tone of blue and promising
girl's laugh of the pink hidden in hues.
brush stroke. stroke the brush
create rhythmic beats of discouraged hair,
fussed over swollen eyes hypnotized,
insomniacs curse-
the easel, a congregation
the canvas, a church.


it is so holy. blessed with water from the Vatican
direct from the Pope. Holy like rushed
tongues confused. Holy like
fans held by hand, airing away
brow sweat under
God's edifice.

she moves. she creates. she loves. she hates.

painting words upon paper,
each stroke of the pen
a re-incarnation of Hughes, Frost, Merwin.
Within. This Paper. A well worn lover.
Like a long distance kiss
blown by the wind
captured on a cheek, held there promising
for another. and another. Mighty
and mightier-

I am a writer.

ancient scribes painted across words,
swirling each pen as a stroke
colors of experience intertwined with
portraits of genius-
each piece, a puzzle. each enigma, a lust.
Desire. Of words and sound
surely, no definition or mere pronoun
uses the synonym in which I hymn mere
treasures locked in a box
hidden surprise-lyrics lost and found:
vocals: an open mic. ear: a reading. music: a stanza.
I cannot be bound.


Poet. Creating arts with words.
Poet. Live and die heard.
Poet. A definition of me.

Sight. Sound. See.



Shout out to Robert Dodson-a fellow poet. I created this poem, "Painter" with him as my muse. I told him once that he paints words-a true quality of imagery, and writing. As writers, we all paint words-creating a genius upon our canvas within our souls. Much love to all my Poets. Live your craft. Love your Blessing till your last breath.

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