Well Runs Dry

jeanne Oct. 2014

With the energy
of a run-away horse
my art consumes my soul
transmuting my agony
to what some call
creative expression
words on paper
lingering musical reviews
in the air
dabs of paint
telling make-believe stories
I create with unstopping
passion until
the well runs dry
and I die.

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Strip away all
polite veneer
exposing primal fear
jealousy, greed

Our contradictions
mixed with a longing
to know love
at its purest form

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No, I’m no oracle
wisdom flows not
from this pen
or wise words from
this empty mouth.

I dredge the silt
of meaningless words
from this foolish
mouth of mine
until it is clear
ready to receive
from Source
poems to heal
wisdom line-by-line

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No Bed of Rest


This is not a bed of rest
rather a holding cell
while my spirit takes flight
free at last
of the confines
of this troubled world
in a few hours
to dance with the angels
unless you prefer
a darker cloud
for me, moonbeam delight.

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Cruel Time

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Ah, the cruelty of time
making us wait
pacing, sitting, lying down
time slipping away
leaving us old and gnarled
waiting for reality
which remains elusive
shifting with
the sands of time.

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A Poet, A Fool


What does one become
after being a poet?
A fool, I expect
wandering in worlds
of metaphor
going deeper within
until he arrives
at where he’s been
all along.

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Mirror Poetry

What does it mean
this poem of mine?
It means whatever you see
in its mirror.

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