Beginnings PRISM
I feel like a prism tucked away in a box
Thats been pushed and bounced about for a long time.
People have always opened the lid, taken the prism out & admired it, handled it,
But never with much care;
Till finally the shine was dulled,
The surface scratched, the colors distorted;
Although it was always put back in the box;
The light only allowed to peak thru the cracks;
Gradually most of the gem was chipped away at;
Split and separated now it's locked away protected
Not even its fragments must be displayed or admired;
The lid is tighter now --
And knows enough to wait for much gentler hands.
LEGACIES
The hurt runs deep
As deep as the knowledge of politics and fencing,
It runs past the body throughout the mind,
It colors,
Wraps around and throughout the head into the soul.
It runs
Down to the tips of my hands,
Disturbing the nerves of each finger, each toe;
At times it may choose to incase each bone,
With a configuration, a cushion -
Till it runs deep throughout,
And exudes itself in silence,
With paper and ink,
Or in front of masses;
Till it exudes itself in voice, sound, movement-
In an inevitable explosion of creativity
Destruction? --
And / or unspeakable Beauty
Copywritten by CREATIVE FORCES NYU Magazine 1978)
WE FIND WAYS TO CONTINUE
The wind leapt between a whisper and a sigh;
Seizing the tufts of my pink gauze, shirt at every folded indentation;
Caressing my body, wrapping cool grey sand,
Round and about my bronzed and buttered toes.
As a receding torch of amber peach sunlight -
Stretches from the horizon to the shore;
Melting into the voluptuous curves of a tormented sea,
Under a small orphaned cloud, near an abandoned castle,
This is where she sings to me in her deepest blue velvet voice --
We find ways to continue
As you and I breathe, the tide ebbs as it flow
To mourn what has passed and to weep, to be reborn -
As we feel it's sorrows letting go -
To bathe us in its Sanctitys Soul.
MIXED Co. (Summer 1979)