Quicksand

*Not about art, just an old poem (maybe 1-2 years old) I found in my sketchbook I feel I should record!

I wistfully sigh as I drive by

the ice-skating rink with the big blue light-

longing for a moment with you

frozen in time-

of laughter, clutched hands

locked eyes- nowhere to climb-

just stand

like we used to,

bathed in the glow-

of the sand, flowing past-

but for us it felt slow.

Now it moves like lightning

I feel like I'm drowning 

in quicksand- so thick

it oozes around me-

holds me captive while I look out,

desperate to see you-

waiting, watching, clenched jaw- I start to doubt

I try my best to wiggle free

escape, do something...

or, just let me be-

Yours is the only touch that can save

a grip, a grab

reaching into a cave-

The warmth is there

although it is distant,

if I can be patient, 

I can endure it.

It will get brighter,

the sand will let free

and I will learn better 

to let that sand be-

to focus instead on your

arms round mine-

and the way we both feel

to be eternally intertwined.

The Race

So long I've been without my brush

Why did I wait? Put it off? When it longed for my touch?

Bitterness? Resentment? Failure to succeed?

How weak am I to ignore and heed

its call- for when I finally embraced

my need to create, it felt like running a race!

To feel my heart beat, hear my feet pound-

moving through the air, adrenaline abounds!

Lately, I've been statically moving forward,

as if on a treadmill- stationary- not going towards-

that part of my identity in which I am real,

where vulnerability meets truth and feeds my zeal.

Now I know, next time that I feel gray-

all the colors are muted and I start to fray,

just lace up those shoes and step onto the earth,

prepare to get dirty and envision rebirth.

The time is now- don't ever forget-

the beauty of creating and the pain of regret.