My question of the day, asked by the owner of the once rundown
But now newly refurbished and soon to be upscale townhouse.
Why do poets paint would have been a question more suited
To my personal dilemma... I paint because, sadly, writing poetry
Does not pay for the electricity, the gas, the food, the rent,
Or the medical bills, but as to the former question...
I really do not know why painters wear white unless
It's because we all secretly want to be the good guys
Maybe I wear white to remind me of where I've been
Like an artist's canvas my white bibs reflect
Back to me all the mindless hours I've spent perusing
The means to the end- money for living expenses
Each color a reminder each dot a pigmented celebration
A splattered tribute to the grit of the American workman
Raccoon Desperado
He was back last night
On rear deck rummaging
Grubbing for food, snatching
The available goods from
Bird feeder and pet dish
Security light announcing
His entry into forbidden zone
I saw him from kitchen window
His face barely visible
In reflected fluorescence
He moved quickly when I sneezed
Sending unfamiliar audio waves
Bending the darkness
Like a black mask on morning
The King's Son
From the mountain top
The entire city can be seen
Spreading out in the valley below.
River to the left, bending
At the great base to twist
Around the limestone mountain
Like a liquid snake of green
Its surface reflecting heavenward
Crystal scales of aqua-blue:
Beautiful city for neglected souls
High here on the point overlook
One can even pretend, amid all
The splendor, that everything is well
Beauty confuses the reality of things.
Beauty is a valley filled with despair
Anarchy hangs like the sky's gray haze
Confounding the minds of many
And clouding the judgment of all
Thousands of hopeless castles
With thousands in distress
And only one shining knight
Left standing on the horizon
Willing to rescue them and
His is a sharp two-edged sword
