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AS BLACK AS WHITE / DREAM
Phantasms of the mind
stir restless in the night,
and lead down chiseled steps,
into a room, pure white.
Run hands across the walls
encased in sheets of ice,
the window disappears,
with slowly fading light.
You turn to find the door,
the entrance to this tomb,
the portal disappears,
no exit from this room.
You’re standing there alone
in pristine purity,
so cold, so far removed,
it’s emptiness you see.
You hear a voice that calls
your name on that cold night
and see the open door
that leads up to the light.
Phantasms of the mind
stir restless in the night,
let sleeping minds divine
the blackness in the white.
MaryLee Treistay
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BIRD PAINTER
I didn’t use to like the ones with birds in them
she’d paint alluring skies and water minerally
brimming glints then seem to feel she had
to punctuate their ambiguity with some expected
order carefully assorted gulls: culled illustrations
out of greeting cards obligatory birdies dotting
gleaming shards of sky and sea to add cliché
to the topography: some expected notion of what
ought to be above, beyond, around an ocean:
turned the beach from vague-and-haunting-lone
to Jones. But I was an elitist prig. Now I look at
each meticulously painted sprig of wing and breast
and tail and beak: and almost hear my mother
speak: each fine careful flying thing belies her
death: bears witness to what’s left lifts the gulls
and deftly keeps them up: her artist’s breath.
Guy Kettelhack (GuyBlakeKett)
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