Mold me reality
into a painting
I can see and
a picture I can sing;
possibility fly off and away,
but come back with wind of man—
perpetual human—
beneath your wing.
While off on your desperate flight,
find me my man-on-the-moon-
and Starry Night. Find me
a bloom bright and
rich as an O’Keeffe,
a room melting into the sea—
mermaid eventuality.
Don’t let me be simply me,
but the expanse
of possibility! Write your
Ninth Symphony
and share your reality—
loud and pounding in deaf ears.
We have heard the human cry
for ages, and we have drowned in it
for years. I turn pages
and pages of written pictures.
I search for words
of the past wise, my search flies
off on wings of roaming bird.
The swirling, cloudy sky,
the Degas dancers twirling
like a paintbrush in the Irises
of your impressionistic eye.
Cry out in color, mold
your created sight—
escape from being, may you find
your way to man.
The repeated Monroe, the Pop can
of tomato soup—
we all need a break
from the day to day, the monotony
of the two-act play—
the normal way of rendering reality.
Scour the shelf of
the library book, the opera score,
the large open door
leading from here to there—
transcend the habitual stair
that leads to our natural death.
Let the ascent be bent towards
ceiling doors that open
into the evermore—creation emanates
from our eternal core.
Oh, The Persistence of Memory
so sketched into every soul—
the musicians, the painters,
the poets know
the constant effort, the common goal
to make what isn’t what is,
to break from anything real,
take what we feel—to abstract it
in what we may
in the hopes that one day we can
fly through possibility—
creation, freedom—
oh, the joy of man!
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Submission Name: Untitled
