Light Rays

I think in lines
Like light rays running
Backward to a weary
Sun so blinding bright
That I don’t see a future
Bathed white, undefined
By past time.

But rays aren’t real,
The lines can’t bind
To cremating identity
No longer mine.


The Second Voice

Twisting paper into waves,
Walking graphite across page,
Brushing imagined image alive,
Typing text black into blank,
We derive from air artistry.

At one table sit the artists
Heads bent, expressions intent
Chatting softly with one voice
While a second hand-crafts meaning
Out of paper, paint, perspective,
The noise of creativity singing
Somewhere above perception.

Lost Art

I took a rose from an artist
who didn’t think she was one.
It was inked on snowy paper
That was waiting to crumple
With all the others in waste-bin,

And I thought of museums
Never filled because the hands
That drew also crumpled.