By the sea
The Written Word is Dead
As morning whispers Ďcross the flaxen grass,
sea birds add chorus to the breaking day.
The dancing moss is partner to the wind,
as I am partner to the words I say.
Be damned, the pen, when ink will not come forth
and spill itself upon the writing page!
Be damned, the word, when it is not enough
to soothe a heart, or vent your pent-up rage!
Take brush to canvas, paint the mood you feel.
Share of your beauty, so that all can see,
or paint the demons that relentless, gnaw.
Just paint, so world can hear your silent plea.
With palette in your right hand, take a brush,
paint ship with lifeboats scattered all around.
Pretend that in one boat you have survived.
The people scream and yet, you make no sound.
Theyíve seen that canvas many times before,
So burn it like you did with all the rest.
Remove her clothes and paint that lovely nude.
Make sure that it will be one of your best.
Or paint a seascape, children on the sand.
The laughing gulls are swooping overhead.
The children giggle as they run about,
feeding a flock of gulls from loaf of bread.
The written word sometimes is not enough,
when embalmed words find final resting place.
They died, neglected, so much like we all.
They canít describe my touch upon your face.
They canít describe your breath upon my lips,
the depth I see when I look in your eyes,
the touch, in darkness, as our bodies meet.
So often, words, are only good for lies.
Unlike the word, the artistís brush is truth.
Not once have I known it to tell a lie.
It says sometimes, what words can never speak.
Iíve seen it laugh and yes, Iíve seen it cry.
Stars will shine when I am gone
Earth will spin on as before
Gulls still race along the shore
Morning star, still kiss the dawn
~ M. Auguste