On reading this in early morn
of baby's face in muslim wrapped and torn
and of questions answered
and more questions asked,
Squinty-eyed, I read the tiny 'zine.
As my butterfly, my muse
danced joy outside my view,
my question came up.
Floated to the smooth surface
slow a triangle formed
white on black
on 8 ball upturned.
Do I paint a story for all to see
or cloud and veil my words
so they treasures be?
One spirit sits begging Artist be!
One spirit begs for words that all can see.
Tell a story simple, say words true
or reach to the soul
looking in corners dark
for hidden scenes inside the goldmine
sometimes feeling snakes
and vines other times.
Hidden scenes come quick and flee as fast
captured fleeting glimpse lit by lightning flash
but stories relayed emerge from the past
of melted toys and cowboy boots,
and summer sweat days to examine close
wandering through our images
captured in time, like mining memories
in a safer place, where coffee and time
define the pace.
And maybe the mine holds both treasures dear,
a flash of light with rush of wings unseen
then pausing to watch reflections in dreams
Painting Flashes deep, selling stories with a smile
is a question posed by my muse today.
And I will sit here waiting for both to appear wondering when I am writing which words do I hear? Am I thinking in lines measured with rhyme or sitting back to tell a story not worried by time.