I construct,
in the dusty corners of the moon,
orchestrating art,
with knife
and spoon.
I conduct,
under the orange peel of land and lakes,
moving vibrations,
communications
of beats and breaks.
I compose,
on the whites of fallen trees.
Alphabet remixing,
rhyming,
Siamese.
I create,
on every canvas and coast.
Romancing with form,
an artist,
art
engrossed.
Share
i comment,
on this pink virtual page
a mind’s play
released from
cage!
on the whites of fallen trees
what a line! love it…
Thats one of my favorite lines in this poem too. A metaphor for paper.
Trees are poems that the earth writes upon the sky. We fell them down and turn them into paper that we may record our emptiness
words of kahlil gibran…
Hi Travis,
beautiful words!
You have been writing consistently very high quality poems! Bravo!
best…
Hey Travis, beautiful blog set up! Lots of clean space, zenny space!!
This poem is like a little song, with a lilting rhythm. Like your commenter above, I also love the image/metaphor “whites of fallen trees”.
best,
David
Thank you David! I’m glad you like it. Perhaps the rhyming in this poem makes it seem songlike.