I am every blue on the color wheel…

 

pexels-photo-326055.jpeg

 

I am the girl in the dream, the girl in the hour glass.

I am every blue on the color wheel.

I rise on a great floating bubble that a child just blew out of a plastic jar of soap.

The bubble is Robin-egg blue and I am continually moving toward you.

I am the girl in the dream, the girl clasping turquoise ribbons attached to the moon.

My skin looks quicksilver blue like the Moon.

My heart is an open door that is deep blue like a navy school uniform blazer.

I turn the glacier blue door knob and I am permanently moving toward you.

I am the girl in the dream, the girl who is every blue on the color wheel.

I am soaring up toward the baby powder-blue stars, the blue-gray fog is lifted.

My blue-gray eyes finally see you and my Faith has been made sight.

The Angels Have Not Grown Older

man with wings standing on brown mountain peak

Photo by Rakicevic Nenad

 

The Angels have not grown older.

I always see them over my shoulder;

gentle, yet piercing mighty eyes.

Always checking the road maps and signs.

 

I have grown much older;

my dreams like nets all thrown.

Some  I’ve known have wished me well;

a couple of them said “go to hell.”

 

Words, just words without caring.

Words, just words both wrong and right.

Still, I journey on toward His Holy Light.

Still, the Angels lie down beside me each night…

I journey on.

Inner City Poet

photography of person walking on road

Photo by Leo Cardelli

I heard a story ’bout a poet who gave himself away

The inner city was his canvas with no color in his dreams

He was a wanderin’ grifter but no one knows for sure

It is said he still wanders ’round downtown at local bars

 

This City is a hard place and it stings when North winds blow

It shows no mercy to the poor child with no where else to go

I heard a story ’bout a poet who sang his songs for all the lost

Then he set himself on fire to warm them from the chillin’ frost

 

The  children who roam the Night Streets tell the story of a man

called the Inner City Poet who comes each night to tuck them in

Inside their cardboard boxes they lay there heads upon the ground

and the wanderer sings them lullabies ’til morning comes around