An Artist
He wrote so playfully;
Living every breath.
Renouncing the bane behind;
He displayed all he can.
All he cared about deep inside.
He dared to muddle the meaning
For his own art;
The art which also belonged to others.
He is an artist of clumsy walks;
A first step of a long run.
A breathing and purposeful art
Survives the death of his meaning.
There are answers always
Questioning him.
There are questions always
Answering him.
He scribbled so fruitfully.
A device of worship he found so artistic
And future of brilliance in his craft.
A flavour of senses;
Drenching him in the
Purpose of his flair.
When Poets talk about Jazz
When poets talk about Jazz
It reminds me how blues sharpen the cry of a guitar.
Musical words spill all over
The soulful page of a poet.
Away from the pages of a poet
Like an amused solo wanderer
A sign on the lonely crossroad
Stands as the music of a road;
Leading to the calling and thought-out destinations
Jazz again reaches for the words
Blues pause cutting the heart
A start ends peacefully
A cut for a cut again
A broken heart for the blues and Jazz
Jazz is imagination and flights of sensual fantasy
Blues seem like a knowledge forgotten and
Remembered in fragmented revelations still
Bearing the painful past
The best thing is you can wonder and wander
At the same time with these two.
Dumpster Fire Press 