The Artist And His Paintbrush

>>I love this one

Using a voice I cannot hear
he calls me outside
and stuns me as I walk
by him in his workshop…

…his invisible hands reach out
and dim the lights
as I stand in silence
– my breath slowly seeping away

I adore his being – though
unseen – eyeing his palette –
picking his paintbrush –
and starting with orange…

…with magical whisks of the
intangible brush – held with
hands unseen – he transforms
the dull canvas into a play of colors

The orange turns to pink as the
fluffy whites become a fading blue
and time unnoticeably escapes
with the light – into a hazy blackness…

…and men go to sleep

Back to Black (unplugged edition)

This is one of my old ones, written>> August:

Sue: Now you're making me turn red!!
Me: Okay - get back to black!
Sue: What do you mean "get back to black!"?
Me: Wait and see!
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Above is the dialogue that gave birth to this poem!!

A friend comments on a guy we like
then all heaven is loose:
We turn red...
Red with love
Red with passion
Red with blood...
We feel our faces heating up
and our cheeks becoming hot wet paint -
Red paint!!

(Nobody else sees it though
for our beautiful skin -
colored like the soil - hides all
the redness!)

At times we struggle:
Every step we take seems to take us
either closer, or farther,
to, or from, the one we love
We fight a battle every centimetre -
every inch's a strife!

Our days are spent in blissful thinking
and hopeful wishing...
Every second's a desire that the one
we love may notice us
...and love us back!

Our dreams are wasted happily
Our time is lost in joy
We throw our thoughts away, with smiles
...all day we think of "us"

We imagine "us"
We wish "us"
We dream "us"
We love "us"
...and pray for "us"

We feel like running to this human being
Running to embrace them, hold on to them,
and just love on them.
Our bodies become kettles
and our blood is heated up -
It playingly runs around our veins
...mastering a childish grace

(All that just because our eyes met theirs!)

But...
we choose not to start the fire
...not to get burnt to ashes
by this ever-blazing flame
We choose not to awaken love
...not to arouse this beautiful beast
until it so desires

We cool our emotions down
telling them to wait:
"for my time has not yet come"

One day we'll share this truth

One day we'll be free to fly on
the red wings of love
seated on the red coach of hearts
with our prince or our princess
beneath an Afrikan sunrise:
Red clouds, orange sky,
and golden twinkles in our eyes:

A beautiful day comes to an end
and another one begins!!

But today...
...we move from red to black:
Back To Black!!

Afrika, The Baobab!

Afrika - like a baobab - big and strong:
Outwardly withering away
Inwardly refreshed and renewed -
day by day...
The scorching heat of the unending sun -
The crazy storms of life -
The poverty in greenness - drought all around;
But Afrika, the Baobab, never dies!
Filled with enough water to last all droughts...
...with a beauty uniquely your own...
...lone...misunderstood...underappreciated;
yet alive and strong!
An unspoilt virgin: Afrika, the beautiful!
Now, as the sun sets behind you
A beautiful silhouette of dry twigs - stretched out -
like a maze of a million lifted hands is all that's left!
The dark has come. All is gone.
But the strength in you remains - my Afrika!
The heat! Storms! Droughts!
You remain beautifully you: My Afrika!

Beauty - it's what's inside!!!

Poetry in Motion: How To Write A Poem!

The mind makes a move
and the hand mimics it –
pen moves on paper –
erratically, thoughts drop –
a poem is written
for latter use –
for people to find meaning in it
And through the brain –
down the nerves –
a journey is made – again and again –
as the mind moves, the hand moves…