Shades of Scarlet . . .

My pencil is but a mere stub

                                          of what it once was

                                                                        in its glory days .. ..

I carry it everywhere with me

to jot down thoughts,                                              

                           and half baked ideas . . .

these days its nearly flat   . . .               

and without a sharp point

                                         it cannot draw the fine details

of stamens in the cup of the flower. . .                       

                                          nor the passion of the bee

who, covered in pollen,

and golden, like the precious daughter                                           

of Midas . . .

                                     a child who seemed to exist,

merely to give a lesson                             

                              on the powers of love

and the subliminal values

of existence  . . .                                            

..... my pencil, again,

intrepid yet inanimate . . .

                                                a slight pressure and. . .

she scrawls . . .

                the latest nonsense from                                                            

            my flickering brain. . .

thoughts and feelings                                       

that slide down below

                                               the surface before I am ready

 to capture their essence                                          

with a touch of revelation and insight . ...                              

                                        like a torch in the painted caves,

revealing the forms of                               

visions and dreams . . .

                                       if I walk down those sloping pathways,

deeper into the hot bowels                                                     

of the earth . . .

                                          past the sleeping dragons,

I expect I will meet myself                                              

retreating from my old dreams . . .

                                              and my demons;

you see . . .

my life never follows the

                                      well lit road

nor the easy path . . .                      

                      I dig my own way

over the rough stuff 

and I find myself                                               

in the arenas of other gods . . 

                                                those I never thought 

to meet. . .

and thus I am never truly prepared                                                     

for my future . . .

                                     so I watch the hungry earth

swallow up my troubled blood . .                                   

                                   shades of scarlet

in the shadows of                                               

my dreams . . .

Geese in the Rhododendron Gardens, Portland, Oregon