Underneath the swaying hickory tree,
He plays his Gibson guitar.

Though his song crumples in the sweltering
Southern breeze, he continues to strum
His guitar strings with a zealous passion,
Expelling each song lyric outward from the
Disconsolate depths of his mourning heart
In hopes that someone, somewhere will listen.

Within the confines of his cluttered garage,
He plays his Gibson guitar.

Though an irritated sister bangs violently
On the door, he continues to play unperturbed
As his three bumbling friends dance clumsily
To the crooked melody and his younger
Brother rolls on the grimy floor in uncontrollable
Laughter at the screech of a leaky note.

In the bustling, sullied streets of the city,
He plays his Gibson guitar.

Though passers by attempt to avoid eye contact,
Whipping out their sleek smartphones and burying
Their faces in their screens as they hurry past him,
He continues to penetrate their eardrums with his
Dissonant ballads, pausing only to collect pennies
Thrown in sympathy at his worn, weathered feet.

In the Marlboro stench of a crumbling nightclub,
He plays his Gibson guitar.

Though some customers, unsettled by the cheap alcohol flowing
Pugnaciously through their veins, heckle him relentlessly,
His guitar continues to erupt with an unapologetic
Persistence, rattling the stomachs of even the
Sober clients into a nauseous, drunken ailment.

And now, despite the aching calluses ingrained in his fingertips,
The bumps and bruises deriding his cherished instrument, and
The overbearing lights irradiating him from the high iron canopy,
He continues to pour each poignant lyric from within him, just as he
Has always done, Letting each of his fingers dance from
String to string, and every verse arouse into graceful takeoff.

As he reaches the final verse of his final song, he pauses abruptly,
And listens to melodious, emphatic voices
Reciting each lyric and bursting into jubilant applause.

In the limelight of a thousand adoring eyes,
He still plays that Gibson guitar!!!

Lucid dreaming is the doorway
        to the unconscious.
So dream.
Do not stay closed
        behind cement barricades
        blocking the moon
        from shining.
Live.
Each second is for you.
The tumbling of life
         does not promise
            anything.
In one breath
you can have
        a time table
        handed to you.
A distinct framework
        of how much
        longer you shall be.
Stay in illusion.
Keep in mind
that very little
is worthy of
being screamed about.
Politics
        and
people games
        are not
         the substance
        of existing.
Picture colourful images
         that flutter
          playfully
            across the
           mental horizon.
A traffic light
      will
       blink
red, yellow, green.
A noise
        will dominate
         the shading sky.
These mean nothing.
Moments of distraction
        soon
         gone away.
Focus on fantasy.
Allow yourself
the freedom to
         celebrate
        the essence
        of harmony.
When you die,
       it will be
         your dreams
         that are
          remembered.
Breathe.
It's just
      a bad day,
      not a bad life.

his writing caught everyone’s attention
like an artist i once saw on the street in québec
he stood out amongst the crowd in montréal
i asked to take his picture
he obliged

this writer is also canadian
and paints masterpieces
with words

his colorful lines sometimes float on jagged edges
brushes of sticky sugar coating are exchanged
for starker strokes of reality
tinged with weathered wisdom
creating shadows in his work
accentuating the light

there’s not a write of his
that does not stir emotions
his words linger
rolling around in your head
bumping into each other
morphing into new connotations
his easel alive

you wonder if he did that on purpose?
could anyone have that kind of talent?
yes…..his brush continues flowing
even after the paint is dry

suddenly at midnight i awaken
and hear another morsel
a word, a phrase, a color
that only made itself known
in the dark of night

understanding he's a favorite
i imagined audibly hearing a collective sigh
when he contracted cancer
would he now leave his canvas dry?

no, this courageous artist
bravely took his palette
and continued painting
his words that us awaken
now e’vn more radiant
with tragedy astride

and ‘tho he talks of dying
i pray that he will stay
but should his spirit fly
we have seen a master show us
how to walk into the light

©2016janetaylor

Navigating his way past screeching taxis,
Unperturbed pedestrians,
And vibrant street performers in the city,
A young boy scurries down the street,
Smiling ear to ear.
He extends his arms perpendicularly to his body,
Propelling his body left and right,
Pretending to be a jet plane.

He is meeting a girl today.
And not just any girl;
An angel.
At least that’s how he sees it.

In his left hand, the boy carries a rose.
Grown from love, it’s dashingly large;
A symbol of his exuberant feelings,
It’s a gift for the girl,
And an invitation to a first date.

In his pocket, the boy carries an iPod shuffle.
Giddy with optimism and bliss,
The boy’s heart skips to a romantic pop song.
He proudly waves his rose through the air as he moves.
Holding it like a microphone,
And not bothered by judgement,
He sings the lyrics to the song aloud.
He’s in love,
And he wants the whole world to know.

As he scuttles ever closer to their arranged meeting place,
The boy grips the rose tighter now,
Guarding it with his life.
He sinks into a daydream,
Thinking about her:
The way the sun amplified her splendid complexion,
The satisfying fluidity with which she would say his name,
And how she giggled as he pushed her back and forth on the swings.

Nearly out of breath, the boy arrives at the street corner.
He spots the girl immediately,
And a thrilling tension condenses in his chest.
The girl bestows him a smile,
But she looks agitated and in a hurry.
Unable to contain himself much longer,
The boy extends the rose out her,
Revealing to her not only the gift, but also his feelings.

“No thank you,” she says lucidly.

The boy’s smile fades and his cheeks turns pallid.
Though in a state of disbelief,
He accepts her verdict with civility.
The girl offers genuine condolences, but shows no signs of regret.
Covertly, the boy holds back his emotions and bids her farewell.
But as he walks away, he’s overcome by an unfamiliar, rankling feeling,
And his heart plummets like a raindrop falling from the sky.

As he wrestles with his grief,
The boy begins to weep and loses grasp of the rose.
It tumbles out of his hand,
Only to be violently stolen by the wind,
Sullied by the filth of the sidewalk,
And trampled by people passing by.

At the collision of day and night,
When twilight torches the sleepy sky,
Dying sunlight reclines over the horizon,
And demure darkness
Daintily descends,
She waits.

During evenings like these,
She journeys to the beach
And surveys the sea,
Eloping with the elements,
Exposing her skin and soul
To wandering winds.

As she stands there,
Vulnerable and pristine,
The tide tickles her toes
And she giggles at the call of
Whispering waves.
The fading sunlight flickers goodnight,
Dancing on the sea surface.
And then she remembers.

She is living for a memory;
Dying to fulfill a dream.

At night’s true nativity,
A latent force harvests
Emotions from within.
She extends her arms and
Alacrity overtakes her
In the form of a smile.
A tempest rushes through her,
Pitching her very being from within,
And conflating her spirit with the sea.
Together with the endearing waters,
She is complete;
She is free.

As pleasant chatter echoed from within the coffee shop
I lurched backward at the kick of a scorching cappuccino to my lips,
Clumsily sloshing a few spiteful drops onto the beechwood table.

Reaching sheepishly towards the nearest napkin,
My gaze fell inadvertently in the direction of a
Comely young woman sitting alone at a nearby table,
And I immediately became possessed by her presence.

My hands reached for my backpack in animation,
Fiddling with the zipper and unearthing a spiral notebook,
Flipping anxiously to a blank page on which to draw.
It became apparent that I discovered a muse.

With her hair hanging loosely in caramel curls,
The girl stared at her novel in placid fixation,
Delicately perusing each word in hopes of
Absorbing each ambiguous connotation.

My pencil scampered fervently while she flipped a page,
Dipped her little finger into her petite cup,
Mingling the whipped cream and murky coffee,  
And sampled her caffeine creation with a succinct sip.

Though I toiled with haste in fear that her attentive eyes might
Wander and spot me in my mad state of artistic enchantment,
I captured every angle and curvature of my subject in my notebook,  
Once finished, I could not help but be in awe of the masterpiece I’d created.

After a hearty slurp of my now tamed cappuccino,
I held my drawing up to compare it to my muse,
But to my astonishment, she had disappeared.
Dainty fingers tapped friskily on my shoulder.

“Well done,” the girl quipped, analyzing my work admiringly,
Then snatching the notebook from my quivering hands
And replacing it with a crumpled napkin on which she
Had scribbled down the digits of a telephone number.  

“See you this evening. Don’t be late!”