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Guest Poet Richard Charles


Empty canvas longing for
smooth caress of brush,
as dusty film gathers on
Vacant images secluded
in time, as the thirst for
expression grows with each
perpetual day.

I once dreamed of vibrant
skies, books flapping their
pages over subtle seas,
playfully looping one another,
as they race along surface.
Guided to perfection with
still hand, and gentle bristles.
I was a magician, maker of
miracles, bristled wand in
hand, creating life and love
in vivid tones of violets and hues.

Am I nothing more than a sponge,
panting and thirsting along
desert sands, sere air withering
my skin, almost like time dried
Ahh yes, a sponge, dry and empty,
exceeding the boundaries that didn't
exist, to frizzle beneath peering sun,
withering to subtle tones of yesterday.

July, 2001

Richard Charles's Questions:

Here is a piece that I like, which is rare for me, but I feel its trite in some forms or cliche'.

So my question is this, do you see it as being another artistic cliche'd poem?

And if so, are there any suggestions on improving the piece?

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