The Artist’s Winter

urban-13-500x333dust covers every key on the piano
spiders have taken over the easel
no one creates here anymore

rain pattering window’s glass
even on a sunny day
the doors stay closed

no one comes to knock or call
newspapers stacked outside the door
recall how long it has been thus

a cat wanders this floor’s hallway
nobody seems to know where it lives
suspiscions grow it’s been locked out

everyone waits for a dull thud
then the smell in coming days
denoting the prescence of death

I myself, try to believe
the newspapers will disappear
the door will open

typewriter-with-cobwebsthe cat will come home
the cobwebs will be swept
the dust will lift

the rain will stop
the music will start
writer’s block will end

and beauty
will be created
again

BSB

 

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the ghost of the artist

a ghost of the artist stands behind me
his eyes running the course on my work
a sigh of resignation escapes my throat
this digression causes the ghost to start
as an icy hand, pulsing with exuberance
who in life created visions, splendor
rests dead fingers upon my soft shoulder
as gentle words whisper “Believe”
and my creation continues

my imagined life

she tells me she wants to be a baker
I taste her cakes – she does not lie
her dream is to open a shop
delighting sweet-seekers of the city

I imagine waking up to the smell of baking
reading over pages in the sun room
she walks in with a tray of fresh goods
a kiss on the cheek
how’s the book coming, sweetie?
here, try these

she tells me she is an artist
asks me if I could write books
which she could illustrate
well gosh, why not?

I imagine rising late in the day in our studio
we paint our naked bodies by hand
and roll over blank canvases
she takes a brush and finishes the piece
as I watch her and scribble down poetry
and we fall asleep making love