Poetry

Observation game

Pedestals can be wondrous things.

Placing something high enough to be gazed at from every angle,

observing the symmetry, or lack of.

Sowing seeds

to sprout discussions, positioning light

perfect for an artist’s sketch.

But what of people?

If we put them up there too often, who is the first

to forget they are real,

and can be warm and loved and upset and abused,

capable of trust and betrayal,

and equal – yes, equal – to everyone else?

Them

or

us?

Poetry

On making good art

It lets me examine it

smoothing my hands along its contours

gazing into each space, searching those pocket spaces

for wisps of goodness

where I can spend time being myself.

 

Sometimes

it shows me my mistakes

sometimes

I can see future pictures of wells

where I jump into the unknown.

 

If I walk past it in the morning

I see one thing.

If I walk past it a minute later,

I see another.

 

If I stumble to down to my hands and knees,

not looking at it directly but from the corner of my eye

I can see every part of it, pixel fine.

Or nothing at all.