A song in the breast

What should we sing to the song in our breast?

Should we shape words with blood to feed the shuddered awe
or should curses wail like children hungry for milk?

What will bring forth the sound flounde'ring for melodies
for a voice to lift a chorus of hallelujahs for Messias.

We search the empty vocals standing like spent sentinels
guarding a trove of treasured trinkets.

These sparkle when the children dress them freshly with magic
whispered like wind-catchers o'er dead objects.

It's tempting to think a maestro's what's needed
when what's absent is a resurrection of life.



"Be" Attitude: an image

I painted yellow-green o'er the image.

It's a wash, ugly, meant to hold pastels in place.

The prophet, the lips, the lateral head peer out
in space across the canvas to wherever they stare.

It grabs ones attention though ugly.

A pink swath lays at it side.

Who would buy such a monstrosity but a lunatic
or perhaps someone who looks past the colors on the facade?

For the colors work their  magic in their ugliness
if in the glance they draw one to heed and read
to consider the message on the board:
LISTEN. LISTEN.  It says.