Saturday, January 18, 2014

Whittles & Wittiness

 

Wrapped in wrinkles,

A calloused hand,

Rough and cracked,

Works to expose beauty,

Carving out the pieces,

With his mastery,

Raw; like the man at work.

 

Age painted on his face,

Line by line,

But beat for beat,

The heart of a boy.

 

A dimpled smile formed through the repetition of a silly punch line.

Gray hair, sweeping just above the furrows of his brow.

Deep, unending eyes. Filled to the brim with love and compassion.

Looking up, transfixed on the One who formed each flaw.

Jolly, rosy cheeks flushed from a hearty laugh.

 

The finished character reflects the old carpenter better than any mirror.

 

Mr. Fix-it shakily stands and brushes the dust from his blue jeans & suspenders.

A style branded with humility.

His sole accessory, imprinting a 60 year tale upon his crooked finger.

 

A hallow knock sounds, as his cane counts the stairs ascending before him.

 

Pausing briefly he looks back at his handiwork.

A  collection on a shelf,

More than figurines,

But memories,

Life’s true keepsakes.



Wednesday, January 15, 2014

Perceptions of Change

Faded & fragile,
The pigments of summer etched across the driveway. 
A masterpiece,
Soon to be pieces in the afternoon breeze. 
Line by line,
Shaded in by youthful naviety. 
Her forever,
Threatened by a wisp, by the reality of tomorrow. 

Twirling in the rays. 
Drinking in the vigor, the warmth of today burns her skin. 
Behind her, a faithful companion. 
Protecting her back, until she turns around to face the day.
Running...
A tied race. Until darkness wins out, consuming the mine. 
Yet silence continues. 

The colors streak across the ashy sky,
Blurring the pane seen through the window. 
A warped promise, 
Bending perceptions of the here & now. 
She looks up,
The bent display, a miracle's reflection. 

When change is your only constant,
All that's temporary is permanence. 

Sunday, January 12, 2014

Sometimes Silence Speaks Volumes

Drinking in every drop of ink scratched across the page,
Every line. Every dot. 
Hoping for a hidden message. 

Tracing the loops with your fingers,
Memorizing the letters. 
The signature stamped on your heart, 
Imprinted. 

Yet the paper is cold.
The black font leaves it parched and dry.

Thirsty for a taste, a morsil of fulfillment. But the sustenance you crave disappears with every lifeless word.

Your eyes pour over each syllable until they blur together.
After awhile even the punctuation seems pointless.  

Saturday, January 4, 2014

Etchings of the Heart

"We are writers. Bleeding words, on pages that are always empty. Writing. Until our blood becomes ink, and our fingers become pen. Writing. Until the simple act becomes breathing."

I've come to believe there are no such things as empty words. Or miscommunication. Letters become syllables, making words, forming sentences, connecting us to the pages.

This is a place to share the etchings and scribbles that have been written on my heart. ❤️

This is the beginning; ending unplanned.