Moon Song

The moon hums a lullaby,
Low, sweet, gentle- 
She hums to the stars,
Singing the song of sleepiness
And each of them yawn,
Blinking softly,
Closing their eyes one by one,
Drifting into the dreamworlds

The moon smiles as the stars close their eyes,
She is still singing,
Rocking the world to sleep,
All the children of earth wrapped in a gentle glow
 
The moon is singing the song of sleepiness-
And everyone hears

Winter Sunset

When golden cotton puffs across the sapphire sky,
And a gentle light settles against the coolness of nightfall,
The bare trees reach up for the sunlight-
Soaking it in, like water for the soul,
They are alive again-
Dancing in the sky for this one moment,
Singing a song of strength and beauty.

When icy blue darkness comes creeping,
Settling over the land in cold shivers,
Oh- what I would give for the sun!
To cup its warmth in my hands-
For my heart to soar up to where the sky breaks,
Flying to the edge of light itself-

I would be climbing up-
Up to where the stars sing wild and free songs-
Up past the dawn and time,
Where Winter flees from fire

Peculiar

She was always odd, that one-
It’s not that she’s not charming-
She is, in fact, well liked-
Everyone knows she’s beautiful-
But, you see, she’s just not like the rest of us.
 
She sort of glows-
Her soul comes through her eyes,
Like light through glass-
When she laughs, the world turns to listen-
Nobody knows what she thinks about!
She’s kind of mysterious-
It’s not that we don’t like her, really-
It’s just that she’s odd.

A Question for the Artist

Excuse me, sir,
Would you allow me to sit down?
Might I ask you a question, just a small one?
I assure you it will not take long.

What makes art art?
How does one become an artist?
Who decides one is an artist and therefore makes art?
Are there artists who cannot create art?
If you are an artist, are you entitled to decide what art is?
What happens if art is not thought to be art and then turns out to be art?
Does art become art when thought to be art, or is it always art?
Is art truly created, or just captured?
Are there really no boundaries to art?
And who decides what is not art, if art is limitless?

Thank you, sir.
That is all.

A Discourse on "Maybe"

"Maybe" is a lazy word;
Not long and intelligent, nor short and witty.
It’s just the size that isn't hard or tedious-
Easy, yet not small enough-
Not completely comfortable with itself.

"Maybe" is stalling,
Not willing to give an answer- 
Not just yet.
Long enough to fill the time,
But short enough to be the easy way out.

Seeing

It’s hard to explain, dear
The scientists say it has to do with light, and beams, and prisms.
It feels so much clearer than that, though!
Like dipping your hand in the cold ocean water,
Like the warmth of the sun on your skin-
It’s like touching something from far away,
Like wrapping your fingers around it and squeezing-
Like feeling it with your eyes, feeling without touching-
Evaluation without interaction, if you will.
Sometimes I think you have the better deal, you know-
The sightless have to be close to everything to really get to know it.
We can stand off, and look, and not get inside of things.
We can glance and brush by, without taking the time to feel.
I have a hunch we’re really just good at looking-
Maybe you can tell me about seeing, dear!

A Single Star

One might think it would not matter,
 A star so small-
Just a tiny blip of light, after all,
In the never-ending cosmos.

But I like to think the latter
Counts not at all- 
For all great things are made up of the small,
And the painting without the strokes
Would be rather lost on the whole.

Where would the might of the ocean be,
If it were not for each single swell?
Where lies the majesty of the tree,
If not in each leafy silhouette?
Where rests the awe in deserts free,
If not upon each grain of sand?
And would the galaxies have brilliance,
If not for the glow of many single stars?

The Dove Does Soar

The dove does soar-
Though it be with feathery wings,
And little flaps against the sky.

It is not fierce-
Though it roves a hazy skyline,
With storm clouds streaking in the air.


Its heart is light-
Though it may be small, it is brave,
And flutters forward unafraid.

The dove does soar-
So may all who are small take heart,
For in weakness, we may be strong.