Cock a doodle doo


Night of silence
Sends my fingers to weave
In sleep a mutable song
Which settles deep
Pours out strong
Lustily greeting
Another morn




The artist steals his colors from the palette of nature:
Daisy yellow, cumulus white, sea foam blue, and new leaf green.
Congratulating himself for mixing a gritty mahogany
(tinged with the red of rain-washed clay)
he sneers and deludes himself into man’s great pretension;
That he alone creates the wonders of the world.

Sick Muses

My words have lost the pleasing sway of the women who walk softly.
No longer do they whisper or entreat, but stare dumb
Empty of all, but the faint guttering of a flame near extinguished.
They have forgotten sun and song and dance
Are hollowed of the joy which animates them as blood does me.
I leave my door ajar, but they do not go
Only mutely plead for a sustenance I cannot know to give.

Writer’s Block

The empty page remains empty
Like my heart remains empty of feeling
No subtle fondness curls in my mind
No embryo rises from the watery depths
In the darkness, its eyes remain closed
And that door, which so many think,
Leads to other worlds, but leads to the truest me,
Stays shut