He opens his box of shapes and sizes
No surprises
colors fleeing on windswept clouds
astounded he stares
for each time he opens his box of things
he feels the joy it brings.
He pries back the board so tenderly
afraid for the day
they don’t come out to play
but they know him well,
his favorite shades that bring a light to each day,
playing their role
they soar like birds on ocean breezes
above him, his box releases
without further adeiu
for me and you.
He has to create
these pastel whimsied worlds
for it is his nature
and he knows no other way,
a magician of life he gives away
a piece of himself each day
from the bottomless well he says feels often dry
so his tears he cries
never knowing that each drop that falls
fills that magic box he carries,
he openly shares
for in beauty and love he knows will grow
as the color moves outward
touching each soul
his work in color is never done,
each day has just begun
and the supply paints the world
glistening drops of beauty
filling voids where broken ugliness hides
keeping him alive.
Day: 03/03/2017
Delicate
Our lives-
pickup stick games
from youth to death
sliding out so carefully
each thought from beneath the balance,
never knowing if one jolt,
one movement affects the next thought
and so on
as we pull each one with carefulness and agility,
observing what is to come next
and then beyond
weighing our choices
as we look from each angle
making our decision
so thoughtfully.
How did they become this jumble,
for this is how the game is played
they are not Lincoln logs waiting to be built,
a pile of shapes and varying sizes,
these slim fragments of color are all the same
as we are all the same
we try in earnest fashion to win each game,
sometimes succeeding
sometimes moving and tipping the scales
this way or the other,
yet we keep going as if there is no other way.
Until the last stick is picked up
we pay close attention to each detail,
if we do this, what may happen?
Not until the game is over,
do we finally realize it was simply a game after all,
it became more fun when we took the risk
and chanced failure to do so,
there was always a do over until there wasn’t.
But if each stick were a person in our lives,
and we kept adding instead of removing
oh what a beautiful shrine we could build,
higher and higher into the sky
we would win every time,
everyone would have a chance or say
and we could live in balance
and harmony
until the end of our days.