Words and Lyrics

Was she playing a Uke? I asked as we glanced back at the stage
I think so, he said, I nodded and made a note of it on the page
Was she singing in tune to the drummer or that guy on the keys?
Perhaps it was both, her lyrics held me in check, weak in the knees.
like a rumble of emotions, the words ripped a hole into my soul
the sticks beating in time to the foot tapping, my fingers on a roll
floors shaking, it's the music we are making, walls quaking
the words meant more than the scratches on the paper are taking.
This is where I lost track of who was listening to who,
the writer and the Ukelele singer are one where we were two.


copyright
Mikev2 2016

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The Artist

She sits at her studio bench, careful consideration
on her face, the reference sketches lie under the
paint swatches, the acrylics unopened arranged in
order of layer, the sable brushes, the minute tools
waiting for a decision to be made. The aluminum
casting is done, the rough miniature awaits the knife
for the finite details, that will follow.
She could get a 3D printer but the amount of money
wars with her lack of computer skills and the idea that
somehow she will not be able to create the same magic
in plastics that she has managed with aluminum and lead.
"The old ways are better instead," she mumbles as
she pushes her bangs away from her head.
The faded Tomb of Horrors tee shirt splattered with old
paint marred by the new strokes of drying paints
the small tears honor her favorite shirt, her small handles
turn the HB2 pencil in her hands rolling it back and
forth as she considers the final details before she turns
back to the paints.
Our hero awaits clasped in the alligator clips, the shavings
lie scattered below him like discarded armor. The artist
selects the base paints, setting to work, a mildly curious
perplexed expression writes itself across her freckled
cheeks. She adjusts her glasses, clips back the rebellious
bangs, massages the crick in her neck, remembers she has
a cup of coffee. She sips at it realizing that the ever
curmudgeonous Gaming store owner has reheated it while
she was lost in her meditative trance. Thankful she gives
him the blessing of light and hope that Talos will be more
forgiving the next time he call down his name in vain.
"The coffee is good, may the patron saint of miniatures
bless this peice as I already know she should."
The hero awaits the birth of face as the primer is washed
into place, the artist smiles to herself as her art takes shape.

The Next Step

Imagine,
A foggy stream in a wilderness unknown
the run of water, the song of distant birds,
the early morning air, the absence of man
everywhere.
The silence that is not silent surrounds
the crush of pine needles, the swish of
the grasses, the delicate steps of the deer
as the morning passes.
The softness of light, the downfall of dew,
the hallowed moments between the present
and the next, a movement in shadows
the bear splashes into the stream, the flash
of the trout, the minutia of this
dream.
The silhouettes stark against the water
softened sky, the smell of cedar, daisy,
oak and time. The feel of the wet rocks
slick in the water, the rush of the chill
the quick swim of the otter.
The twisting paths through the trees,
the clearing nearby, the shelter of the glade.
the whispers that you think you can hear
the complete loss of fear.
The rustle of the underbrush as some creature
moves to retreat, the crush of space, the
next step comes when the picture
becomes complete.

copyright mv2 studios 2016


credits to Virtual Dreamer and Brad McBride for the video.