From This Desk
From the desk at which I sit
and bring beauty
through these hands,
this brush,
onto the paper
into the world,
the corner of my eye
observes the wind
flipflop a tablecloth
on the other side of my heart,
a friend whose son is dying,
a poet who had a breakdown
during army reserve duty,
another who has just had
a difficult diagnosis
in my painting, human-free,
the North abloom,
mountains regal in the background,
pine trees and peace,
sky blue with optimism,
ground green with eternity
on the radio
a six-year-old Mozart
is wooing my heart
whom do I fool?
a world in pain
paradise so close to a hostile border
that, if you listen, you will surely hear
the mortar shells falling
am I permitted the peace
which creativity gives
yet compassion prevents?
I sign the painting
a month in the making
and hurt for the world
