Poem 277/365:2015

sometimes

we find ourselves in the places

were we didn’t know we were

and wherever that is…

there we are.

seed

growing between concrete—

in shadows and dreams

spreading as wings

near and far

become a tree

where the birds will nest

and sing

or bush though small

never cedes

for it is never lost

as long as it can find root

—waiting tears or rain

carried by treading or wind

sea or happenstance

a seed arrives and grows

wherever it is

…and in time

will become again

elsewhere

Being An Artist

There is nothing normal about being an artist, in fact, it is quite abnormal to be such a bold and spontaneous expressionist: a true artist is abnormal. ―Tshombe Sekou