This Life Creative

Throwing commas at a page, Pollock
would smirk around cheroot smoke
and smile on his pipe handle.

Power is not in the take away but
my give is a thousand bamboo forests
in typhoon's miracle, death has no grasp.

Yes, I tickle the dragons tail in the spirit
of expansion, flickering blue light fate
that waits in Colorado skies.

My experiments escape from my test tubes, indiscriminate.

Glory is illusion illusive, idiosyncratic to my fashion,
a hawk disguised with robins and larks,
a take down in microcosms resplendent grace.

Passion is my conflagration unleashed on pages
a music of gods imparted a bit more than
lightly, for touch is definite, as am I.

Another way, passion is my glory, nebulous are accolades.

Voice is strength, and I protect mine in fire holly
and breathed upon by blue sapphires, my makes
are inviolate in their power, glory and passion...

And gratitude for this life creative never wanes.

Chris Whitenack © 2014