Tuesday, September 9, 2014

The Perfect Crime



The Perfect Crime
I’d better write something good before I die.
What exactly, I don’t know.
Perhaps, the feeling just before death ...
Rather the awareness before not knowing
Only to be forgotten, rather never to be known by anyone
No evidence, and the only witness doesn’t exist.
This is the perfect crime.

Sunday, June 22, 2014

The Greatest Painter



He wanted to be the greatest painter
He worked hard stretching his pale canvases
Past limits of never ending and then …
He was touched by an Angel, who advised
“Paint all of your dear subjects with sunlight.”
She vanished before he could ask her how.
Before he understood, he had palette
Brush and a feverish hand in motion ...
She came into view as he remembered her.
He looked away not wishing to go blind.
He could never get close to sign his name.
No one would ever know who painted her …
That he was the greatest painter of all.

Wednesday, March 5, 2014

She Wanted it for a Ringtone




The teacher played the recording just softly
Enough for the students to hear the tones,
The chords, and a fine gentle melody.
Though it was as though only one listened …
When he saw that she raised her little hand
He smiled and appeared before her blond desk.
“Maria,” he said, recalling her name …
“Yes,” she said with the truest smile, perhaps
Happy he knew her name when a year passed.
She asked her teacher for the music’s name.
“It’s called, ‘Arrival of the Birds’,” he said.
“Oh, I want it for a ringtone for my phone …
Could you write it down for me please,” she asked,
As she pushed her notebook to the desk’s corner.
He wrote the title and the orchestra
Between blue lines as surely as he could
“I don’t read script too well,” Maria said.
Then he engraved the page with capitals
Clear enough surely for any child to read …
But she was not just any child … she was
Maria, who loved this music so much
That she wanted it for her ringtone.

Wednesday, February 5, 2014

The Book of Lost Dreams



The book of lost dreams still lies in his heart;
Wherever he sought, the pages were not.
Disheartened, he imagined them as blank ...
Or what was worse, the worn leaves were gone.
He couldn’t remember them as though he
Constantly awakened from them each day.
What differentiates remembered dreams
From those that crush memory to whiteness?
Was a curious abyss drawing him
In, or was there something in his regret
Beside Vanity and Self-loathing … when
They try to resolve their differences?
He lost many duels with distracting mind waves
Trying to live those dreams again, but time
Wouldn’t agree to this vague indulgence.
He acted as though it were intended
To deceive him until he slept … never to dream again.