art

A Song of the Mystical Dawn

/ Flowerpoet / Leave a comment
A Song of the Mystical Dawn
Awe thrilled my soul when I beheld
the Presence of Almighty God
enthroned within my humble heart.
Too much for words this union is,
yet I dare say that He is mine and I am His.
Nothing there is, or ever shall be,
can tear apart this Unity.
Content, I am, my Spirit free
to be His love eternally.
His bliss and peace descend on me
and I ascend in ecstasy.
You too can know His Presence here
when His mystical Sun in you appears
with the power of Love to cast out fears.
April, 1976 revised May, 2004

The Party Souvenirs

/ Flowerpoet / Leave a comment
The Party Souvenirs
Je Suis Enchante
You charm and entertain so well,
I left feeling like a voyeur
catching glimpses of your lives.
A Short Story
I’m sorry there was nothing written
between the beginning and the ending…
except a little pain.
Je Regrette
You were looking for a tequila shot
but all I offered was the salt and lemon of my life.
A Poetry Reading
You didn’t quote your poetry to me
but I read it in your eyes.
Je Me Souviens
kidnapped from my bed…
hit by a look and run…
inspected like a curious antique…
wine and food and fun…
December, 1997

Creating Carla

/ Flowerpoet / Leave a comment
Creating Carla
Carla paints her life
with splashes of bright colour
and daubs of dark and somber tones.
One is evoked to chuckles and sighs
seeing the methods and materials
she uses to express her own chiaroscuro.
She tests her strong courage day by day,
revealing herself in a myriad ways—
a vast collage of multiple images
positioned with dramatic flair.
Across her canvas, here and there,
are layer upon layer of secret strokes
hidden so deep
only archeological digs would find them.
Every brush stroke is a story told
of battles and skirmishes won or lost.
Does Carla see in her life’s artistry
that she’s the creator of it all?
February, 1999 revised April, 2004, January, 2006

Poetry

/ Flowerpoet / Leave a comment
Poetry
I’m a well-spring of ideas bestowing wealth…
a mirror revealing you to yourself…
I’m a bridge to the future—
a bridge to the past—
a breeze that speaks to the sails at your mast…
I’m a haunting whisper in a mist at sea…
a mother’s cry—a political prisoner’s plea…
I’m your Spirit in a different disguise
seeing Life through Poetry’s passionate eyes.
January, 2002