With a voice of jazz

With a voice of jazz angels speak,
passing their melodies inexplicable
over the ears of many.

In distaste and confusion some falter
and turn away.

In contempt and utter preference
others turn away;
for broth.

Innocence and the same pure colors
shared with skies across occasions
yearly and numerous
are my gift.

I am sustained by pigments
but I long not for the pigments of painters.

I am sustained by the pigments
that I see when I listen
to the voice of jazz.

I am sustained by the pigments
that begin where colors end
and the angels lift their voices
to speak.

I"m sitting here now with my hands

holding my face

because I feel so much of this nothing-hollowed emptiness

and I know not what I ought to do.

I use my hands to work;

I know they can wield the axe

but can they take this thing out of me,

can they fill me?

Right now, I'm holding my face with my hands.

Seeking an answer,

a solution to my invisible, burdensome

dilemma of life

and I find nothing in my hands.

Today they worked,

wielded that instrument which tears

into life ancient and wizened

so that it may be stacked

and later burned for warmth.

Lives forgotten,

countless years erased in ashes;

at least my hands can keep me warm;

at least I am warm.

A painting: The seas edge, the moon on high

The world whispers it's stories to me

The moon shining above tells me of 

All the wisps of love it's caught

Over time.

It tells me of the way it

Catches, and tucks them away, hidden,

But not unseen.

The small wisps, the beauties-collect

Become the moon.

In between the moon and the watery-eyed

Seas edge is an image painted;

The colors of which,

Being so lost and tangled,

Leave me with no definable 

Impression of what this image may be.

These eyes gaze upon the trailing sweeps

Of motionless,

Beautiful color

(Defined by the seas edge, defined by the moon)

And know

That enshrouded within it's lost self

Is the destroying hope

The crushing substance of life

That no man dare invent

Hath conceived.