Footprints
I see the footprints of hundreds of busy feet that walked before me.I see history being created….little histories, not major sagas.
I see the footprints of hundreds of busy feet that walked before me.I see history being created….little histories, not major sagas.
When someone opens a window inside you and holds up candlelight.
As I read a story about fairytale characters in New York, my childhood comes back to me. I remember why my fanciful notions were set that way. I’m angry.
Poison,Was laced intoThe first glass of sweet wine you offered me Since then even water tastes like fire From betrayal is born vindictivenessAnd for those of us who never forgetIt is akin to the demon child born of a mortal womb You will always be the poison in my sweet…
That’s the time it takes to go from peaceful to peaceable.
September will come.
If Art be the much-loved childcarried to term and delivered by the nurturing womb of Creativitywhich in turn, is impregnated by the sperm seed of an Ideawhat else can Curiosity be…but the passionate union? And yet it takes two to unite, to create.But Art, owned by the artist and not…
The best of times. The worst of times. It was an affair to forget.
If love were a poem, I’d be an ode to your being.
If love were a song, I’d be a serenade to you.
If love were a painting, I’d be a blind artist.
A ballad for the one who shines a light in my mind. And on my path.
When you stir to wakefulness today, just before you open your eyelids, what is the first thing you will think of? What thought will you shade your eyes with, for the day? Will you see the day starting slowly, without your assistance and not needing your reassurance either? Will you notice how the stage…