Studio8 - Uniting the Arts

on parchment and skin.

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I have vivid recollections of my father
standing knee-deep in waving fields of wheat
crushing the chaff in his hands

I am blown away

his snuffled whispers
impact
perfect rage

a hush to listen

Precious Pup chuckle
chirruping smiles
in all the children

in rows of nine
beneath each name
I list transgression

from her lips
each curl of smoke
a breath of waiting

I watch as thoughts take shape
from former things...


and on it goes
on it went
history in the making
small imprints that last
evolve
the intermittent seeking
finding ways
to keep it mellow
thought pattern maze
insistent always
to make things better

sometimes you can't

you hope

you hope to drag reason from the rage
make it the innocent victim
hold the menacing fist at bay
become that cushion

rage

I've seen it at play
in child-like wonder lost in glowing smiles
wheat-field summer days when dragonflies flit
and nonsensical pleasures emit their golden rays
that wash away all dreary past remorse

I've seen it rest
on faces framed by mother's father's love
ensconced it beckons best
when sleeping dogs still lay
and barks and bites are muffled by the snores
contented life

it never lasts

though there is hope

in broken glass and bits of life now past
I hold within my heart
the good
the bad
and try to make some sense of it

our stories weave and mold to hearts
gone out
searching mid the wreckage for some
peace in it
and there to find
it held the answers best
when looking back and seeing
all too clear

the mirrored faces
hand in hand
reflecting back
remember all the
fearful nights
the terror there
yet dwell upon the gentleness
the swaying fields
the bygone days
the yesteryears
the inconsistency of love
that brought me here

where now I stand

and hope to find between the errors of my ways
a settled mind