Pollock's
Canvas
Nothing
here is random.
Each molecule of paint
has dropped exactly where it needs
to be.
Icarus
He soared
and touched the sun.
And yes, it burned his wings.
His fall, a meteorite's streak
to earth,
tragic
and terrible.
And yet, that lure of sky
remains. We gaze above and dream
of flight.
Return to the front page of this issue:
Amaze Vol.
4, No. 3
Go to the
Poets & Authors page for the poet's
biographical sketch and email link.
All poems are copyright © 2006 by their respective authors.
