The Magician Rises (Poem)

Dropping the book in fear,
the strange magician took flight down the street,
a crooked warren of stones tumbling him forwards.

In desperation, he grasped for a gaslit streetlight post,
and whirled himself around the corner,
discarded strings of rain flowering behind him.

His eyes, now a straw yellow, honeyed with fear,
took in the hat bobbing closer to a drain's opening,
and he stumbled downwards,
fingers madly scrabbling,
a broken aura of magic tinkling to the street in shards.

Muttering and mumbling, he finally clenched his hat,
as thunder like a rolling timpani swept into the air.

Soaked, wrinkled and triumphant,
the silent magician began to weep into his hat,
as the current formed different patterns around his knees,
continuing its inexorable journey towards blackness.

His muttering did not cease,
even as he stood up,
the ripped hem of his robe catching in a gathering gust,
the wind singing a dangerous tune.

"I will paint this life with magic," he whispered,
flicking the hat open with a practiced movement,
and placing it atop his weathered head.

Only then did he begin his slow gait,
away from a terrible hidden storm,
away from a book being swallowed in silt,
and towards a direction from where no one has come.

The Magician Falls (Poem)

Startled at the magician's response,
the little boy went wide-eyed with sadness,
for he had never seen what a crushed dream looks like,
nor tasted the flavor of failure.

The magician sat for a still moment,
swirling his crooked fingers around the gutter's eddies,
and picking idly at a string dangling from his sleeve.
With no warning he lashed out at the boy,
grabbing him around his neck,
curling a vicious hand until his fingers met in the back.
Standing slowly up, ram-rod tall,
still holding the boy dangling from his hand,
the magician began to smile,
and his eyes turned to dark pools of honey.

"I have never lost my hatred," he hissed,
as his fingers clenched tighter around fading innocence.
His broken-wire hair caught in a muddy wind,
that whistled as it ran up his sleeves and through a myriad of pockets.
Carefully he began to walk, holding the boy aloft,
while the boy's eyes stared, seeing no pain,
watching as grayness crept down the street.

A passing movement paused the magician's steps,
and he glanced down to see that in his hurry,
he had let his hat slip away with the swiftly running gutter,
now raven black in color, filled with frustration.
Looking back at the boy in terror,
he discovered he held only a book,
a collection of poems written by a boy long since forgotten,
soaked in the same drizzle carrying his hat around a corner and out of sight.

As Wine Might Swim (Poem)

Let's make a painting together,
a canvas covered in travels and poetry,
an acrylic tube of days covered in laughter,
an oil painting drying on sun-licked beaches and dinner-time stories.

Let's draw a picture together,
of a camel's eyelashes in pencil, etched on paper, thick like winter snow,
of a chopped up sea in marker, permanently riding turquoise waves,
of a bouquet of flowers sitting on your desk.

Let's mix some paper up,
and glue it in a thousand directions,
cut it in a thousand facets,
and let it dry in a mosaic and mist of color and life.

Let's make a painting together,
and watch it dry as wine might swim around on a warm coastal breeze.