Waxing poetic on thoughts, theory & the times
The usual spots,
We find solace in their depths,
Mine? The library;
In the smell of old pages,
There is knowledge kept in here,
Waiting to be found,
To be known by hungry minds,
Here I am starving,
There is knowing to be known,
So leads curiosity
I am an artist
Of various mediums,
I stake my claim.
Long denied myself the title,
Without profession or degree,
But artist needs no authority,
I just am,
And so I will be,
I will write with paint,
And pen my portraiture,
I am an artist,
It is the creative force alone
That controls me,
Where it sends me,
I am yet to know,
There muses sing,
My hands work feverishly,
Between word and visual art,
The paper is my stage,
And this art is my ballet.
In her soil I plunge my roots,
In her showers I cleanse my soul,
In her breeze I dry my tears,
From her exhalation I take my breath,
On her pillowy hills I rest my body,
I find solace in her arms’ embrace,
Knowing she unconditionally opens her body to be my home,
She is a nurturing Mother,
Who feeds, and tends, and teaches,
And we the children are at her breast,
As close as we can get,
And yet we can become closer,
The more we recognize
That the mother is also inside
She the Earth Mother,
Of which we are made,
Whom we may find, may feel
In and out
Running but still still,
Gears turn, neurons firing,
This is “idle” mind
I am missing you;
Find me amongst the stars still,
By light of the moon
Keep me at center,
Where I may be pulled evenly,
Joined by outstretched hands,
By others who see me,
Others who will come to know
The me I am coming to be,
Who will help nurture,
The spiral traveling,
The soul at center,
To center;
Centered.
She of Letters 