Welcome, and thanks for stopping here to read selections of my original poetry and prose. Only half my art is here. As you browse my puppets, words if you will, think of them as empty hulls whose dance and form are only animated in Play through my vocal conveyance of their characters and via my direction of their tone. Lyric to the ears, its whole message soon appears, in thus the conjuring of ancient daemons deep within to combat the evil ones brought up infernal by the Craft of ages can be our stage tonight.

On this blog the theme is AWAKENING and how Revelation is not some story plural in a Book but supposed to be one of yours in this lifetime. Here in verse I share with you my inquiry to which has bonded Muse.
YOUR STORY IS THE STORY. Their horsie four so full of holes they named that way just to have a laugh. Revelation and Creation coincide, they never stopped. A daily occurrence in a Live Show me is true Prophesy which I assure you, smells nothing like a library book, and for which no innocents are ever killed. I hope you enjoy it, and I hope you copy it to heart.

Sun is Yellow

Refrigerators have always sung the truth. 

The sky is a thick blue line, drawn by a child
with a crayon
across the top of a page. 
Sun is yellow, and gets a corner all its own. 
Smoke's so squiggly; a solid line
scribbled toward the sky and sun,
 
c
oming from the chimney slanted on the roof. 

Flowers grow two stories up,
d
ogs are circles whose legs are pairs of lines. 
There's daddy and the lawn mower. Mommy and her hair. 
And in the pageparts empty after humming pictures drawn, 
big red hearts are valentines that hover overhead. 

Happy homes are those made of crayon and manila paper mats. 
Locked inside the minds of innocence
'till tiny fingers boldly grasp the colored wax,
and draw.
    

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