angry artist 
trying not to stab 
yet somehow her brushes 
reach clear across the Lake 
and while building up 
layers of blue trees 
she dreams of endings
and the blood of Picasso.
[Copyright (c) 2009 Wayne Rice]

How can there be 
water in the oil? 
Wood and light? 
The smell of pine 
A look of rememberance.
How the canvas bends 
how it moves 
my words like a stone walk 
in a painted lawn 
mute as the feet that trod them.
[Copyright (c) 2009 Wayne Rice]

Thick within the wilderness 
a sudden road
forking into an approaching mist
imposing upon my solitude 
forcing an unnatural choice 
amid the leaves and insects 
unless I turn around 
there will be no way but out.
unless I stop being invisible 
this illusion will continue.
away from the brook, 
what use these coins?
[Copyright (c) 2009 Wayne Rice]

As if just beyond 
my teeth-trimmed nails 
four moons of Jupiter 
rise in the steel blue 
above the blue cedar
around a banded marble 
like perfect sentinels 
the always crickets 
backyard chorus 
a slight shiver to my fattened gut
drumming out my 
lonely dilemma.
[Copyright (c) 2009 Wayne Rice]

Tonight the clouds 
were whisper thin 
ice soaked my toes in dew
waiting for a door to close 
the words pass overhead 
like Canada geese 
the planes go by 
one by one 
red white and green 
pulsing like emptied summer nights.
cool gin in a
Paper cup.
[Copyright (c) 2009 Wayne Rice]

If only I could draw what I see
I would an artist be.
No one likes what they've become.
What is that
celestial roaring
where does my despair go?
Like the just-burning cigarette
my passions flare and cool.
By this moonlight 
I see only
that the ink
has taken;
but like the noise of the
cars on highway
fading into shadow
so this passing voice of movement
fades into the grass' dew.
[Copyright (c) 2009 Wayne Rice]

So now I know 
where Deneb is 
Good Lord, what 
is left to me now?
[Copyright (c) 2009 Wayne Rice]

a naked night walker 
enamored of the voyage 
passed tiptoe 
along macadam streams 
and haunts the dark 
like a wanton, 
clanging church tower’s bell.
[Copyright (c) 2009 Wayne Rice]

I am spiral-bound 
to darkness’ fate
I can scribble with the best of them. 
Like a misplaced seabird 
crashing the darkness 
screeching full flight 
I huddle beneath my pear tree 
and pray for silence.
[Copyright (c) 2009 Wayne Rice]

Dark locust, guardian 
of my failure, tell me –
what does that bird want.
[Copyright (c) 2009 Wayne Rice]

Like agitated geese
images on the edge of my 
abandoned beam 
dark lights in 
an emptied room 
of dreams
fall flat upon 
my confronted face 
and weep tears 
of oblivion.
[Copyright (c) 2009 Wayne Rice]

Stumbling through a 
darkened orchard 
the moonlit poet 
scribbles furiously 
in his palm 
hoping to avoid 
the onrushing 
inevitable 
misunderstanding.
[Copyright (c) 2009 Wayne Rice]