A place for poems and pics
it was a treat that
bag of chips to
be savored
eaten over days shared
with friends but
once i heard the crinkling
paper and the tear
of the foil vessel that held
those crunchy chips once
i felt the whisper of air
as it escaped that bag
of chips
once i smelled the
potatoy saltiness of
that bag of chips
once the first chip passed
my lips i knew and
when my greasy fingers
scrapped the bottom of
that empty bag
i made a familiar treaty
with some unknow being –
never again
he wanted to be an artist
a young man, a dreamer
living in Paris or Florence
creating masterpieces then
not to sell but to present –
to give his paramour
the essence of his very soul
a gift rare and precious –
his life did not allow whimsy
an old man, he painted her walls instead
an old man, he painted her walls instead
his life did not allow whimsy
a gift rare and precious –
the essence of his very soul
to give his paramour
not to sell but to present –
creating masterpieces then
living in Paris or Florence
a young man, a dreamer
he wanted to be an artist
you sit to
make music with just
two colors
you play on
black and white, fingers flying
and I hear rainbows
silky red
umbrella tightly
gripped by hands
for shelter
serves only to isolate
her from human touch
will this be a plain butter-
yellow day or maybe a purple
pansy kind of day
does it feel like a Van Gogh
sunflower morning
it might be a white pot-
tery day with nothing written
on it full of potential
definitely not a royal china
red rose day
standing in front of an
open cupboard, choosing
the right mug for my first
cup of tea, I ponder the
possibilities of this new day
The the clock hides its
face with pointing
hands so it will not
be witness to the
secret time when
everything is
probable and
nothing is real
It holds its breath
ticking, tocking as
quietly as possible
trying to avoid the
stares of fading
phantasms hiding
in the shadows
rhymeswithbug 