Game? or Player?
The never ending silence
Prying open my eyelids
Searching for what a smile is
When inside screaming in violence
Just want to feel something
Other than despair
Sometimes it's kept deep inside
And don’t want to share
Then I do but there’s
Nothing inside left to spare
But all I do is contemplate
Who? What? And where?
Am I part of the game?
Or am I just a player?
All I Have is This Photo
All I Have is This Photo
November 18, 2024
All I have is this photo
Taken at the beach
I asked her if I could
She replied with a shrug
It was an older camera
I purchased it in my youth
It used film
It was my last exposure
I wanted to strike up a conversation
The original premise of my asking
I expected a cheerful change of demeanor
She remained sullen, incredibly distant
Her eyes looked everywhere
But they focused on nothing,
Nobody,
And nowhere
Had she been hurt
Had she been ignored
The indifference someone instilled in her
She now instilled in others
So, if by chance you should encounter her
If by chance you have an inclination
Drop a hint
Whatever it is, it too shall pass
The Glass Lady
I once heard someone say that sculptures are like moving pictures. That's not to say that the pieces are alive or sentient. But that the fluidity of their third dimensional forms seem to give the audience a sense of movement. And that is exactly what I felt when I first set eyes on The Glass Lady. Made entirely of clear crystal, the life-sized figurine was the shining star of St Gerald's Art Gallery. People from all across the country came to see it, overcome by the intricacy of her flowing gown and the delicate strands of hair blowing in an invisible wind. But what truly drew the visitors attention was the woman's face. She appeared to be crying, crystalized tears running down her face. It was as though the artist had captured her in time, immortalizing her sorrow for all to see. I was enraptured. I had never seen anything quite so beautiful. Her eyes, like the Mona Lisa's, seemed to follow me as I moved. The small black plaque, where the artist's name was usually written, was blank. I remember asking the man next to me if he knew who had worked on the piece, but he too had no answer. No one seemed to know exactly who the artist was, only that they were a friend of the gallery owner's, and the only correspondence they had had with the director had been by telephone, and that they wished to remain anonymous. I stared in an equal measure of awe and puzzlement at the woman's crying face, and I remember thinking about the kinds of people who can create such beautiful art and not want to claim credit. But as I continued to stare into those shining glass eyes, I began to wonder if the sculpture was a manifestation of the artist themselves. That perhaps they too felt made of glass.
Timeless Glance: A Love for the Green-Eyed Muse
The green light in your eyes shines bright,
Like summer noon’s warm, golden hue.
In them, the years of wisdom lie,
Yet youth’s soft grace still lingers, too.
You’re like a garden, autumn-grown,
Where every leaf holds lines of lore.
But in your heart, with passion’s tone,
Young love remains, alive and pure.
Your gaze is calm, like rivers deep,
Yet holds both strength and hidden fire.
Each word you speak is warm and sweet,
And lit with sparks of past desires.
You’re vibrant as the autumn leaves,
Your green-eyed glance, a silent spring.
I’m yours, a captive every eve,
To love you while the moon still sings.
Fate’s Desire
Desire
The ache of wanting
Your face on every woman I see
My love for you grows
It pulses in my chest
As the waves pound the shore
I need you more than I can say
Yet I try to everyday
My soul longs to be with yours
When our bodies embrace
Joined together
In the rhythm of love and passion
Perfectly synchronized
Breathing each other’s breath
Knowing glances
We achieve the ultimate pleasure
An orgasm consumed by love
Becoming as one
We are complete
Our fate has been met