The sky was Maxfield Parrish blue
with some clouds daubed in for show,
a mix of mauve and lavender,
light gray and dirty yellow.
One could imagine, at the lake,
slyphs slipping from their homes
to sport with shy and tender mermaids
in the shorefront foam.
The problem, though, with Parrish,
is that the world is rarely found
as neat and tidy organized
as where his skies touched ground;
more likely, as I found today,
the glowing radiant sky
finds some rough, rude horizon
to dye purple, cloak and hide.
11 JUN 2005
Each day I wake, my head crammed full of dreams
that reach into my conscious life unasked,
defining how I perceive each new task
by tearing at reality’s worn seams.
From dawn to dusk they push and pull my mind
in strange directions, seeking some release;
new tangents form in patterns without cease
and with their ebb and flow, seek to design
the life that I too often see as dull,
its colors faded out to browns and grays,
mere repetitions of some useless rite.
Of moments too soon gone, my life is full;
and on these fleeting chimeras, my days
oft lose their edges and fade into light.
02 JUN 2004