But, is it Art?

I smashed my finger in the back door leading to the deck while protecting something more important, a fresh glass of red wine.

The pain was intense. The blood was gushing madly. A serviette was handy but the blood-letting would not cease, regardless of how many times I daubed it on the reddening napkin.

The wine stopper was a later addition as I struggled to stop the bleeding. And I was now idling, waiting for the cessation of the blood flow.

blood1

I’m okay.

blood 3

Not too bad.

blood 2

Oh, shit!

 

 

 

 

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Writer’s Tears

writer's tears

 

Writer’ tears and

Writer’s fears

Bubble over the brain like lava

Hot on a flow with an

Undertow of emotions

That embrace the brain

Like a heated vice lock.

 

So I surf the web

As a distraction

And await

Inspiration

A needle in the brain

That sparks life and

Words on paper.

Sorry

(Intermediate step)

On the screen

Stored in memory

Finally

Printed to page

Where the words flow more freely

From the depths of the printer

And I am relieved that I have no more

Fears or tears.

Until tomorrow.

Shades of me…

shades 2

The Common, Broadway, Worcestershire, England.

Light is a wonderful thing
But so too is the inverse.

Shades of me
Shadows, if you will?

Not reflections
But possibly reflective in nature.

A different view
A view of the darker side

But still worthy of consideration.

Shades of me
Set in time and place.

shades 1

On the Danforth, Toronto, Ontario, Canada.

Don’t Feel Sorry…

Don’t feel sorry for me
When I sit alone at the bar
I’ve my beer and my thoughts

And a whole lot more.

Writers are used to reflective thinking
Isolated but no less sure of themselves
And the space they occupy.

Awaiting inspiration
And a whole lot more.

Buy me a cask ale
And you might discover
A whole lot more.

Perhaps, a Hughey’s Gold?
(Said a voice from off stage.)
With some considerable feeling.

Hughey's Gold glasscoaster