Ninth Street.
In the quiet dawn, where shadows long
bend softly towards the day,
Lee Krasner stood with paintbrush poised,
her canvas bright with sway.
The world she saw was lines and curves,
a dance of color, light,
where every stroke held whispered dreams,
each hue a pure delight.
Her studio, a sacred grove,
where silence spoke so clear,
the ghosts of past and future works
forever drawing near.
She knew the way that nature moves,
its secrets intertwined,
in every leaf, in every star,
a wildness undefined.
With every arc and tangled form,
she captured earth and sky,
the pulse of life within her hands,
a symphony awry.
No boundaries could hold her back,
no limits to her grace,
for art was not just what she did—
it was her dwelling place.
She walked among the giants, true,
yet carved her path alone,
in every brushstroke, every hue,
her spirit brightly shone.
Oh, Lee, beneath the whispering trees,
your legacy remains,
a testament to all who seek
the beauty in life's pains.
For in your work, we find the wild,
the fierce, the brave, the free,
the echo of a woman's heart,
the song of all that’s Lee.
Jesus Cloud.
In the late afternoon sky, soft and wide,
Jesus clouds drift, silvered edges glowing,
a slow, celestial parade
across the horizon's expanse.
They gather like disciples, quiet,
waiting for the last light to kiss
their misted forms, turning gold
in the embrace of the setting sun.
Children, faces turned upwards,
point and wonder at the shapes,
halos of light and shadow
forming ephemeral miracles.
These clouds, holy messengers,
speak in a language without words,
reminding us of the divine,
hidden in the everyday sky.
They float, serene, over fields and rivers,
casting gentle, moving shadows
on the earth below, where life continues,
unaware of the sacred above.
In their slow procession, there's peace,
a promise of something greater,
a whisper of heaven's touch
in the ordinary breath of day.
And as twilight deepens, they fade,
dissolving into the evening blue,
leaving us with the quiet awe
of having glimpsed the infinite.
The moons of Jupiter.
Cold watchers of a distant fire,
the moons of Jupiter move
in silence, indifferent
to our small voices.
Io, restless child,
scarred by the desire to break free,
a fury of red and gold,
tearing herself apart, over and over,
as if pain were a means of understanding.
Europa, serene,
her secrets buried beneath a frozen surface.
We look, but she withholds,
promising and denying
the hidden warmth beneath the ice.
Ganymede, immense and solitary,
his mountains and valleys
echo the ancient cries
of creation, long silenced.
Callisto, marked by time,
a history written in wounds.
She remembers the strikes and the falls,
each crater a testament
to the universe's relentless touch.
They orbit, untouchable,
holding their mysteries close,
while we, below, reach out
with instruments and dreams,
trying to grasp
what they are, what we are,
in the cold, vast expanse.
Under Jupiter's gaze,
they remain,
aloof and eternal,
whispering of things beyond knowing,
the limits of our grasp,
the vastness of our desire.
Hi, thank you so much for reading. Sorry it may not be up to my usual standards, having to work on my phone to write as my laptop is dead!!Fancy buying me a coffee?That would be so awesome if you could and would help my work towards a new laptop.
Beautiful. I loved ninth street too 😍 not up to your usual standard... I politely disagree 😊 it is weird typing poetry on a phone though. If I haven't told you recently, you're awesome.
These poems took my breath away with their profundity and depth. The beautifully integrated rhymes and word choices were so original and well done! Amazing job! 👏👏👏💕💕💕