Question from a child: What color is the wind and where does it sleep?
In the summer the sky is blue but the wind is chartreuse.
It cools us and it sleeps on hot rocks.
The leaves of the cotton woods flutter like they smell the coming storm.
Lightning strikes and the clouds perch overhead,
as reminders of the smoke from ancient peace pipes.
The wind arises, wails, blows, turns red,
And screams protest to the corruptible white devils and their treaties.
(Chance Poem: Words from Marie Helens: flaming, rosy, standard, creation, flutter, stand )
Now is in the time to change the standard.
No more nice girls with cheeks all rosy.
No more ladies with fans they flutter.
Now, we are artists, writers, singers, actors and dancers,
with hearts, flaming.
And, we are marching and singing and carry our creations,
And the children, they know we are all One.
Did this creative process,
the poet’s struggles, from free-will generate?
Or did God’s answer for the fall,
design this mystery, our hearts to penetrate?
Neither will power nor passivity can juxtapose,
the artist’s passion to open and receive the silent rose.
But commitment is waiting, waiting births frontier.
As out of nothing, she carries being on her bier.
With music answering meaning,
the contact taken, levels the wall,
as she rejoices “Élan Vital”!