I wish that a pen
could be given to one
to write of the colour
no other has seen.
Yet where is that voice
that screams to the high crags
borne on the wind
that its lyric is done?
That medium evoking
these memories' rainbows
drawn and re-formed
on abstract reams,
that air to carry
a life source of arias
with such honey tones
to unfold our dreams?
Then voice in its call
to companion this moment
touches real close
and then eases the day
where singingbirds rise
a voice on the updraft
will give these words form
to be food and sustain.
Bill Trenholm
I like this all three times, Bill.
RB
>
--
in an agony of sensual chisels i perform
squirms of chrome and execute
strides of cobalt.
-cummings