Never a Wrong Time


On a Clear Day

On a Clear Day

It is not like I just remembered, though in a way I did
Some part of me wanted to be a poet when just a kid
Like my artist, which got squashed while still in school
I’ve waited until my current age to find I had the tools

If I had been better, had better mentoring, who knows
I think I had not lived enough to write poetry or prose
Or my best might have been shallow, yet quite clever
Now I write what comes to mind, to be read or never

I am sure that not everything I write or paint is a gem
I am proud of some, yet no one will ever write a hymn
I’m thankful for ability I have, yet I may sink in time
Neither my art nor writing known,  though I rhyme

I like to paint portraits, though of folks not well known
I don’t always paint as others do, still I chew this bone
If you would learn who I am or was, read a little more
Because writing is autobiographical, it’s from the core

All paintings or other artworks are portraits of the self
Still life, landscape, Avant Garde, sold, or on the shelf
Analog, digital, medium albeit message, cannot matter
It’s who, where, when we are, sane or mad as a hatter

I fear most never find the center; where we need to be
But never stop looking, it is worth whatever hurt or fee
If we’re true to ourselves, what we are driven to create
There’s never a wrong time, neither too early nor late



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