the execution of art

as myth
as order
as space
as power
as shadow
as shape
as chance
as workshop
as mind
as island
as survival
as oblivion
as imagination
as identity
as the home of the wreckless

light crying

Not the expected deluge
I try for tears, they do not come
just like a young rain smell
something stirs to remind,
a shadow of thought, an image slips behind the door
light combines with sadness, unseen, subtle
creating a quiet grief
humid, hot, foliaged in overgrown green grass
 the forgotten fields of childhood.

Home

A mental sanctuary
a repository of memory
an archive of  identity
an emotional value beyond the well positioned
well loved art pieces, the cushions

Battle

When the gates of illusion fall
they do not shake me,
the pillars of conformity collapsed, uniform
I stand firm in the settling dust
armies of the norm, the status quo, the system
are marching towards my stronghold, overpowering
I do not shake, I watching the merging against my liberty, unmoved
the wind rises in my favour
dream ships called from the east mobilise
I am not alone, the power is equaled,
opposition of this collective greed
finally defeated as the rising of moon dictates a new dawn

Shade

low breathing dogs lying in the late light
leaves signal the breeze
dappled images
she lies in the grass, eyes closed
protected from the sweating sun

History circles

The linear appearance, deceptive
some of us are reborn children with other distant memories
she knows places, faces from an unknown past
she dresses dolls in the clothes  I once picked out years ago, exact in matching

Cobweb Thoughts

hanging from the chapters of my life
the dust of history makes me unsettled
hanging from the rooms of my memory
the heart takes a broom, needing clarity
these cobwebs cloud the view, the past is obscured.