Ill constructed are the flowers…and, often prose.

An angst cloaks the dirt from my shivered window.

No comfort found when gazing from them…with bows in my hair.

How simple it would have been?imageedit_1_8080166161

To glance about…upon this, a shaded afternoon.

Perhaps,even with a lightness that could promise pastels to a possible passerby.

Intrinsically, this soft hue, always falls short of my fingertips.

And, does not reflect my mind.

But in my hand…

big and bold, black and white, green and tan.

Impressed upon me…the water and color…for my land.

Hues for both woman and man.



Measured by the Soul


‘Tis true my form is something odd.

But blaming me…is blaming God;

Could I create myself anew

I would not fail in pleasing you.

If I could reach from pole to pole

Or grasp the ocean with a span,

I would be measured by the soul;

The mind is the standard of a man.

Joseph Merrick