A Hummingbird's Flight: Part I

She wound her way up the stony path slowly,
with bitterness etched deeply onto her face.
The shawl she carried had slipped slightly,
hanging at an awkward angle on her shoulders,
making her appear hunched and hurt.
Her sandals were thatched rope,
frayed, with soles of exhausted leather.
And from her mouth came small sounds,
heavy sighs and mirthless laughter.

Along a bend,
some small stones made her slip and catch her footing,
sending her crooked hand to grasp the side of the mountain path,
and forcing a gasp to escape her muttering.
"Curse this journey," she said aloud to no one,
"and curse this road," she intoned, although more softly than before.
Releasing the cliffside,
she straightened as much as can be imagined,
and kept her steps tight and close.

Ascending higher,
the woman turned another bend,
and suddenly stopped,
mesmerised by the shape of a particular stone,
clinging to the sandstone slab and pierced with numerous roots.
"I have seen this shape before..." she whispered,
as she carefully bent to examine, and perhaps take the strange stone with her.
Crooning to herself, she gently pried the stone loose,
and watched as what had held before, now tumbled down.
Taking a reluctant step backwards,
the woman tilted her head and viewed the new ruin,
satisfied that the crack in the sandstone had run its course.
Glancing down at the strange shape in her hand,
she quickly pocketed it in her ragged dress,
pulling back layers of cloth like the flap of a hummingbird's wings.

"I must show this to Him," she murmured,
quickly gaining lost speed,
and ascending faster than she should.

The woman hurriedly hitched her shawl higher,
and glanced only once behind her,
as she continued upwards,
caressing what was lost in her dress pocket.

Then, at a third bend,
close to the end,
she suddenly realised her mistake,
and pressed herself tightly against the cliff wall.
Moaning lowly to herself,
she began chanting in unknown words,
wrapping herself in a nimbus of tones.
With only one nervous glance upwards,
she flicked her coat sideways,
and pressed herself into her chant.
- - - 
"I am too late," he growled to himself,
glancing down the mountain path,
twitching his mouth side to side in frustration.
He quieted then,
listening,
and caught it then: the sound of a hummingbird's wings fading.
Smiling strangely, he began to hum,
and slide slowly forwards.

A Colorado Afternoon

Quick hum of the mind,
wheels spinning like cotton candy,
thoughts dancing like lanky elephant grass,
and thunder rolling like rocks down a hill.

Click, snap of the lens,
rose captured and still,
tilted sideways head,
another snap of the lens.

Look up at clouds,
gray ash in bundled towering heaps,
bumping into faithful sunshine,
tumbling into a family of shadow.

Click, snap of the lens,
sage captured and still,
straightened gaze of the head,
another snap of the lens.

Look down at the path,
where a winding road is food for adventure,
and umber burns into cadmium yellow,
then burns into Prussian blue.

Click, snap of the lens,
birch captured and torn,
thoughtful shake of the head,
another snap of the lens.

Look across at waving wheat,
where quiet cows slowly chew,
Oxpeckers finish a meal,
and the sun tumbles downwards to dusk.

Click, snap of the lens,
another snap  of the day.

The Kingdom of Small Deaths (A Fairy Tale Poem)

The magnificent sound stretched like a rocky "V" into the horizon,
cutting and wandering away from the silent port where the tall man stood.
Further into nowhere,
where greens melted into bonds of beryl and sorrel,
a calmness floated eerily across a mirrored surface,
and if he tilted his head just right,
the softness of the morning
could be heard reverberating through pines and sky,
and into the silent sentinel next to him.

"Are you ready?" the blind priest demanded,
turning his head in the man's direction,
and motioning towards a small skiff that bobbed little in the stilled water.
The priest's cassock twitched and twirled as he turned,
and he felt his way towards the water,
gnarled staff finding its own way to the broken pier.

The tall man pinned his eyes downwards to the left,
and responded while gazing at the receding form. "Yes."

Both forms walked towards the light craft,
and as the priest stepped into the boat,
he turned around and held up his hand towards the tall man, baggy sleeve opened, swallowing darkness,
and stated clearly: "Payment is due to enter the Kingdom of Small Deaths."

"Of course," the rangy man replied, and pulled out a stem of purple foxglove.
Handing it to the man, he couldn't help noticing the old priest squint his eyes, as he murmured, "you bring death to these waters. Pray it is enough."

"I cannot pray until I've seen her," the tall man responded,
stepping into the boat behind the priest, and untying the mooring rope.
"Years have passed since anyone visited the statue's clearing,"
the old man intoned.
"And years have passed since anyone returned," the lanky man quipped.
"I know the stories."

"The stories do not lie," said the priest,
as he pushed the skiff into ripple-less waters.
The two men moved out past the shore, passing thistles and lady's slipper,
bottlebrush and amaryllis, pines and black coral tree.
They stood silently, the boat moving on its own deeper into the sound.
"She has been waiting for you in the light for eight dark years, you know,"
the priest stated, behind the tall man,
as the boat passed from open water to winding river.
Gradually, the thoughtful river turned to the right,
and where their faces were once bathed in cold sunlight,
now narrow shadows whispered to their sides,
and the boat crept quickly forward towards the end.

Inside the man's eyes, lions battled with slippery geckos,
and the rhubarb shadows on the banks beside the boat lay waiting.
The dusk waned into evening,
and the priest repeated, "are you ready?"

The tall man stirred back to life,
and stepped out of the skiff.
After all, in stillness lay death in this Kingdom by the sound.

He walked a few paces into the glade by the shore,
and did not look back.
If he had, he would have seen the boat quickly receding,
and disappearing around the vine-strangled corner back towards the sound.
After a few more steps, he turned to the left,
and continued up a steep path surrounded by the throaty hum of cicadas.

He never wavered,
and strode upwards deeper into the dense forest,
remembering her scent,
and strawberry eyes like a drug to his words.
A few minutes passed,
scattering like the intricate pieces of a broken watch,
and he arrived in the glade of the statue's clearing.

Light bathed colours into mosaics of dance,
and the reedy man took a soft intake of breath.
She melted out of a sage tree,
and stood behind him,
watching and waiting as he walked into the clearing.
Following him noiselessly steps behind,
she smiled tenderly as he reached the pool and sank to his knees.
The waters of dark aqua stared back at him,
and reflected nothing but his face,
though her hands and face nearly touched his ears.

"Come away my soul," he whispered, bowing deeply,
hallowed ripples rushing out from where his lips touched the water's surface.

Silence and shadows.

The tall man quietly took off his clothes,
piece by piece,
and sunk into the statue's clearing,
falling deeply into the moody waters.
His feet slipped off the muddy bank,
and dipped below where eyes can see.

Crinkling in smile and mirth,
she laughed,
tilting her head backwards,
and filled the glen with the sound of shattered glass.
"I will let this one pass, I believe," she answered,
stepping into her waters of eternal change.

The statue's clearing hushed, and
eyeless and lidless, the trees listened.
Their queen in the kingdom had never broken the surface.

"Oh yes, this one shall pass," she voiced,
as her hair like cirrus clouds floating lazily on the water,
and her eyes now the colour of champagne,
sank below into the pool to meet the rangy man.

A Boneyard Beneath His Feet (Part III of "The Shifting Cliff" - Poem)

Thousands upon thousands of words, a river of words,
rolled and roiled beneath his craft, pelting him forwards through the rift.
The bones of sentences long hidden, forgotten, and smudged, tumbled over and over
within the merciless waves of wet ink,
and propelled the cracked man forwards into a land where once no water flowed.

Ahead, he could see a house of paper and wind,
where atop a ladder perched a tiny man,
whistling and singing into the ceaseless cadence of the rift's random rumble.

Glancing quickly into the distance to his right,
he could see the small giant man making mountains of fur and wood,
lyrics of his chant tumbling down the cliff-sides in the distance.
Even from fathoms away, the cracked man could hear the despair
of stone breaking and cracking into a jumbled heap of letters.

Through the rapids then,
Bent and withered with a soul the shape of a snowflake,
the cracked man began his own written chant,
and the energy began pouring out of his feet,
like sand from a sieve,
and into the boneyard of words beneath his feet,
beneath his craft,
beneath his silent lips moving in a private prayer.

His small boat began changing direction,
as dark sunshine began breathing over and into the rift,
and words began crawling up over the side of the skiff,
bones and letters weathered and disused,
filling the bottom of the cracked man's craft.

Forwards then to the tiny man raising his paper-thin chant to the horizon,
as the cracked man dipped his pen into the inky river
and began to write.
Before him a page of song began to unfurl,
and behind lay what mattered less.

Chapters rose from blotched waters,
and he lifted them to the lip of the rift,
as the paper man's chant came to an end,
and the tiny man sank back to his overhang in the cliffs.

The cracked man straightened,
and came to rest where the rapids rose,
spilling into the tiny man's house,
tearing down sheets of mottled paper,
and crumpling walls of long forgotten chapters.
He got out of his boat and began to weep.

Out of the Rift (Sequel to The Shifting Cliff)

The tiny man climbed the ladder of words outside his shoddy barn.
It reached over the gable of his rough hewn home,
and into the whistling winds that circled over his dandelion pastures.

There had never been a day where he had not climbed this ladder,
yet somehow today was different.

There had never been a day where sunburnt seeds
did not flit around the shingles that hung haphazardly,
yet somehow today was different.

There had never been a day where he did not glimpse the small man grow immense,
rise to the shutters of the sky, shake and shudder the horizon,
and watch words burst from cracked cliffs like apples tumbling from an orchard tree,
yet somehow today was different.

The tiny man reached the final rung of his ladder,
and gazed down tiredly at his paper house,
then turned his muttering mouth like a drum's day-beat
and began his own chant,
as the sun squeezed its last sunshine like a dripping orange onto the immense rift.

With his chant's cadence rising,
out of the rift rose melancholy, even as the falling day's light cut glorious shadows amongst his trees.
Through the rift a ribboned road, traveled by few, known by fewer, unraveled.
Above the rift a ribboned blue sky peeled backwards and into it's own arms,
splotching blue stains across the fields where the tiny man's crops lay slumbering.
Inside the rift a small man atop a ladder leaned on a paper house,
singing a mournful dirge where once words lay tumbled and jumbled on paper walls.

The Shifting Cliff (Poem)

A small, giant man stooped low,
out from the overhang above his head,
and into a word-strewn land.

He untethered himself from the rock face,
connecting with the open plains stretching out before him as a palm face opening quietly.
Walking forward, he looked backwards,
at the heart of his hearth,
at the embers like small suns flickering in nighttime shade.

Walking further, he began his life cant,
a chant for life and passage,
and he could slowly feel himself become lighter and lighter,
barely crushing the tips of grass blades under his bare soles,
rising, rising, to cloud shards blanketing his barren plains.

"This is not the end," he chanted,
the cant approaching its climax,
its mountain peak of emotion,
just as he turned and faced the jagged edge rising haughtily
towards clouds like inkstains.
"Oh what a giddy thing," he murmured,
as his outstretched hands beckoned words from their lowly heights.

Then, words, tumbling and winnowing chaff from field, rose.
They rose and rose to the tiny man's arms stretched like taut branches across a horizon,
and danced like marionette strings in the man's smile,
as he hurled them at the shifting cliffs, their faces melting and mocking,
daring his attack.

Screaming, the cliff sides changed and changed, dodging and dying,
crumbling like crushed teeth down their sides,
as the giant finished the chant's final verse,
grew heavy again,
and trudged backwards into his cave.

The nighttime shade embers flickered welcome and happiness,
even as tumbling stones cracked and wedged themselves over the entrance to his home.
"The day grows longer," he whispered to himself,
as he poked the fire into life with his fingers, stirring coals filled with images.

The Horizon Tilts (Poem)

Rays danced and dipped along the shimmering waves,
bobbing the boat as the boy sat on its edge.
Hit feet touched the water,
lifted into the air,
and skimmed the water again,
only to repeat this pattern time and time again.

His quiet hands grasped the wooden side,
splintered with age and disrepair,
cracked paint as a faint image forgotten to time.
Everything on the surface of the sea smelled of serenity and despair.

The wind picked up slightly,
tossing and turning his salty hair,
covering and uncovering eyes staring out,
wondering why his boat had come this far,
when the currents should be pulling him further in.

Then, the true siren of the sea beckoned,
watery hands full of beauty and silence,
and he slipped into her depths,
leaving a boat that turned silently back towards shore and hope.

Tales to Come

crisp snow in winter

crunchy steps in a wilderness path

mittened hand in yours

scarlet cardinal chirping greeting

branch giving way, cracking under boots

tiny puffs of breath ascending, disappearing 

sideways smile, stolen sideways glance

sunset coloured hair covering face

stunning smile hidden carefully, shyly

powder white fox chatting under log

swishing a puffy and patient tail

sparkly eyes glittering 

sideways smile, stolen sideway glance

eyes crinkled in silent laughter

smile wide and giddy

stop for a kiss

bigger puffs of breath

laughter floating lazily upwards in cold muffled air

almost to the crackling fire

warmth in love and life and home

wintry naps on couch await

tiny puffs of breath ascending, disappearing

branch giving way, cracking under boots

scarlet cardinal chirping farewell

mittened hand in yours

crunchy steps on a  homeward path

crisp snow in winter

A Chitter in the Leaves

"Keep up, sleepyhead!" she giggled, chittering through the trees,
sundress shimmering, shifting, slipping.
"We're almost there, oh, I can't wait!" the girl chattered,
shimmying between trees, barefoot goddess to a fallen land.
A raven cocked its head, far above, listening carefully to a wanderlust queen.

"But where, where are we going?" he replied, breathless and shirt-torn,
burr-filled boots slowing his headlong abandon.
"I can never see this city you always talk about!" he scolded her,
crunching a rotten log, cracking scraggly branches scraping his face.
A raven cocked his glossy head the other way, carefully watching a forlorn king.

"But don't you remember?" she mock gasped, jumping ahead,
hand reaching backwards, fingers curling in invitation.
"It's my birthday! turning suddenly while running backwards,
hair hiding eyes, brown strands summer stunning.
A raven jumped, faithless flight, simple streaming.

"Of course, gorgeous!" he responded, clasping her hand,
sweat-stained palm reaching for beauty.
"But I'm dying to see this city," he yelled into the wind,
catching up to her, his sky siren, his movement.
A raven, ink-stained, circled and circled, breathing a deadly song.

"We're there, oh, we're there!" she squealed,
awakening the morning, suddenly stopping a headlong dance.
"Oh my god, it's breathtaking," she murmured,
leaning into his chest, sinking into his arms.
A raven dove, amongst the chitter in the leaves, and chased its shadow to the ground.

The Adventures of Lincoln Wilde: A Children's Story

Written by: Brennan Davis

--

Seriously, I have two last names for my first. It’s just Lincoln Wilde. My mom and dad never gave me a middle name, but with a full name like Lincoln Wilde Wagner it’s a good thing they didn’t! It sounds weird to a lot of people, but I think it's cool because I’m named after a famous president, wacky Irish author and German composer.

The thing that's not cool is that sometimes I get the feeling I'm not the only one in charge of my body. And I'm not talking about my mom asking me if I've brushed every tooth for 33 seconds, or my sister yelling at me about her rights as a teenager, and how that somehow means she never has to do the dishes.

No, I mean like there are things inside of me, little beings hustling back and forth giving orders and making life weird for me sometimes.

For example, one day Jarvis Jasper (I know, you would think people would make fun of HIS name too) accidentally punched me in no-contact football in PE and I blacked out for 3 minutes. I only met the brain that time, and he didn't seem too worried.

But, another day was totally different. I remember it clearly. I was lying down on the soft green grass lawn in our school's recess ground and I saw this cloud that looked like a heart. And not the Valentine's day heart you might be thinking about, but the real one, the one that pumps non-stop. And suddenly, I didn't know where I was!

It was the strangest trip I've taken so far.

I opened my eyes and was instantly pushed by a fiercely red platelet (at least that's what I heard someone yelling in the background) into the heart's muscular wall. “Watch out nincompoop! I'm trying to get to the lungs, move out of the way!” Sheesh, it was hectic wherever I was.

Everybody seemed to know what and where they were going, and looking around with confused eyes the size of dinner plates it didn't take me long to find the boss. He seemed overworked, but turned happy and boastful when I asked him where I was and why he was yelling so much.

 “SON!” he roared, all the while patting a sad blue platelet on the back or slapping a bright red daydreaming platelet in the face, “this is no picnic! You think I have it easy up here like the gallbladder and appendix's lives? They help pass things around, but when the day's done, your body doesn't need them!”

“We never stop working, and if it weren't for the emotional roller-coaster I have to keep in check, I would be a lot happier. I pump these lazy good-for-nothing platelets all day, every day, 24/7, no matter what. Even when you're sleeping I'm working this cardiac muscle!”

“But excuse me sir, I just wanted to...”

“No buts to me young man. You want me to keep your body systems full of blood? You want me to feed the brain, lungs, intestines, liver, stomach and everything else and not stop? Then you better move on, whered’ju say you were going?”

“Ummm, I didn’t say an….”

”Hey! You, aorta, keep moving those platelets, and take this kid up to see the brain, he’s been expecting him. Make sure to run your arteries nice and clean ONE WAY, don’t let any of those platelets coming back to me in veins get mixed up. Then we’ll have serious problems. Alright, off you go, we wouldn’t want that uppity brain getting impatient with us down here in the center of the body. He’s somehow involved in everything, some sort of control center for the nervous center he calls it. Bah, does he pump blood to the capillaries in the fingers? No, who does that you might ask?....”

And just like that I was whooshed through the aorta near my own neck and suddenly came to a floating halt in a room crowded with numbers, thoughts and smells. It seemed eerily familiar from the time I blacked out, but I tried not to think about it. There were so many rooms and places to go in the room I didn’t even know where to begin.

“Ahhhh, so you’ve deigned to come and visit me again, have you young man? And tell me, are you satisfied with my performance? Am I controlling the systems to your liking? Come on, speak up young man! Are you here to complain about that pesky digestive system passing gas on you in the middle of a test? Or even burping in front of Mrs. Bedford when she asked you how your lunch was? I’ve already reprimanded the digestive system for that, and then I always have to keep a close eye out on that stomach, who knows what he’ll try and burn up this time with his acid. I mean, come on, even though I’m 75% water, I still have almost 33 billion neurons firing huh? Which reminds me...”

“Wait! Slow down, I was just shot up here by the heart, he said you would be expecting me?”

“Ah yes, about that. Look Lincoln. All us systems in here enjoy how you’re progressing and all, but I have to tell you, we’re not getting enough information. I mean, from me to you, haha! From ME to YOU, I AM you, anyway. I have a lot of space to fill with trivia, statistics, facts, opinions, etc. and frankly, you’re not giving it to me fast enough. Just look at these rooms, how empty they are! My synapses are lightning fast and some people say I am capable of 70,000 thoughts per day! Can you believe that? I’ll also keep growing at least until you’re 18 years old, think of how powerful I could be!

“So, you think you could challenge me a bit? Push the limits? Get more answers? Take risks! Now there’s a good boy…ah, the lungs are calling you, threatening to cut off my oxygen levels if they don’t get to speak with you. Unfortunately I can’t live without oxygen, though I’m hesitant to tell them that, so you should go appease those two sacs of hot air. See you again soon, Lincoln? Remember, inquire and make me stronger, I like to work out like muscles too you know!”

And those were the last words I heard my brain speak to me that day, before I landed with a squishy squashy sound in what can only be described as a huge breathing bag of blood. Now don’t get disgusted, these lungs were really nice to me! I was hanging on to what they called the alveoli, when the Mr. Living Lung Boss came and took hold of my hand. He seemed fresh and happy.

“Glad to see you’re lying down a bit Lincoln, breathing in that coooool fresh air. AH! Doesn’t it just make you want to jump up and down with smiles? Oh, wait, you’re in here and out there is air and over there is…Ah, anyway, glad you spoke to the brain, he’s the thought center around here, I just take blood from the heart and oxygen from the windpipe (siiiiiiiiiigh) mix ‘em all up and shoot blood full of oxygen all around the body. Cool huh?!

Man, when you raced the other day in gym class you sure had all of us systems working over-time! Had the circulatory, respiratory and nervous systems going craaazy trying to get you to win that race. And win you did young Lincoln, well done! Keep that exercise coming, without that we get all lazy down here, you know? Exercise keeps my bloody friends over here whooshing in and out of all your muscles and organs and with that you can grow stronger. That’s it, that’s all I wanted to say, OH, and also, wake up! We’re slowing down which means you’re falling asleep! (Winks an eye)

“Lincoln, Lincoln, Lincoln are you okay? Is something on your mind?”

“Mrs. Bedford?”

“Yes Lincoln, I’ve been calling your name for a minute now and you’ve been here staring up at the clouds as if you’re talking with someone. Is something on your mind?”

“Ummm, yes, actually, what’s a synapse?”

“Now that’s an interesting question, where on earth did you hear that?”

--

(Illustration note: Brain winking to himself)

Circles in the Sand (Poem)

"Look," he pointed,
and nudged his chin towards a clearing of sand,
as they walked hand in hand towards the end of the beach,
"we'll draw it there."

"But I don't see anything," she mused,
while salty air toyed with a few strands of her hair,
and tried to lift the long sundress clinging to her skin.
"Trust me, you'll see it," he winked at her,
holding her hand a bit closer,
wondering how many times in their lives they had held hands while smiling.

Closer they drew,
and the palm trees hummed a quicker tune,
as frothy sea water licked upwards on the sand,
faster and faster to an unbreakable rhythm.

Approaching a circle in the sand,
the man's smile widened, flashing a toothy grin.
"See?! I told you it would be here!" he shouted triumphantly,
running towards the circles, pulling her laughing behind.

Breathless,
and wishing for nothing else in the world to change the moment he was in,
the man fell to his knees, transfixed to the visions dancing and twirling,
coupling with sunshine and shadow.
He looked backwards and upwards, happiness painted on his smile,
at his best friend with sun-rays winking through plaits of tangled hair.

"It's perfect," she sighed.

Random colorings

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.

The Magician (Poem)

The magician sat hunched over on a curb.
His robe slowly soaked up gutter smells,
and billowed slightly in a fitful wind.
Despondent, denied, and dejected
he held his knees between unseen hands,
tucked into enormous sleeves.

Pigeon gray water gurgled and flowed,
tugging lightly at his hem,
while his sigh carried miles through cramped alleyways and open fields.
Crumpled in his lap,
folded in half,
lay a pointed hat, bat-black and powdered in dust,
powdered in frustration.
His hair looked like a bunch of broken wires,
haphazard and unkempt,
forgotten in the fray of failure, and largely ignored for a lifetime.

The magician's eyes, the color of dates drizzled in honey,
stared numbly at his hands,
half-curled fingers paused in motion,
forehead wrinkled like a crumpled paper flattened.

"What did you lose?"
a small boy asked beside him, curious head tilted in question,
suddenly seated beside the magician.

Startled, the old man twisted his head sideways,
and stared at his curbside intruder.
Wide-eyed, nervous, the boy held his breath,
for he had never been this close to magic.

The faraway look took in the scene only a span more of minutes,
until, with a look laced with hesitation,
and edged with a cruelly-sharp edge,
the magician responded: "Everything."

Boquet (watercolor)

Blue Ridge Mountains (Watercolor)

Monk's Retreat (Watercolor)

"Miss Indulge" (Mixed Media)