(black moon silver)

she has these dark eyes
black like night
black like the painted canvas
black like the unlit stage
where the moon dances

black like a sheet
pulled over
your nose
somehow darkness moving
a fragility
a place, a time
before the universe was born

the desert landscape
the lustre of 1/8 of a candle
yet in this night
even a sliver
is brighter than all the stars
a silver slice
of a more magical being

how do you make your art

how do you write your poetry
do you dig inside of you and find
that darkness waiting, gasping to see air
carve a hole, an escape hatch, pave a long smooth tunnel
from your darkest centre to expose one by one the beams of daylight?
do you trace the red drip dripping footstepps, fresh
with deathsmell –no that is still a living scent, (but barely)
stalk the wounded mystical beast to exhausted ends:
do you make art with her bones? waste nothing of this body
and give your eyes the colours of each thread, hair,
shape and paint yourself in the rituals of an ancient nature.
is your art a gift of beauty to this world who
speaks out hatred, anger, tears or is your art
the mine of a wordsmith treasure boxed in traditions
no longer here, wearing away in the parched paper of books
centuries closed. do you create your art amongst a flowing
river put together broken ends and means and beginnings to
stay afloat and when drifted into the calm ocean look down into the
crystal blue lens all combinations of colour and creed or
do you dive into it, the great deep majestic, and
look around amazingly, sink slowly to the bottom.