My easel is a word, a phase
My pen is color blue
The brush applies a tinge, or
accents
...
The infinite depths and twists
Of the unhearing of this world
Those whose faculties remain intact
...
The morning dew was rising
As sun so bright and warm
Settled on the mind as peace
God let his creatures swarm
...
The winds of time wash over us
as the breezes of history consume
In the air the heavenly father watches
In the end he comes and removes
...
William E. Dickinson, a painter of words, was born a short drive from his ancestor Emily Dickinson's birthplace in Amherst, Massachusetts. Dickinson's writing started in earnest after breaking a few backbones in a 1988 fall. His penchant for writing became two thousand poems and, after a new marriage, over three thousand poems, with many published. His published compendium, Breath Torn Away by Sept.11, was a poetic ride through terror and humanity's heroic triumphs. Empathy for all life is the soul of his writing. Gardening, choir, and aikido are relaxing and meditative pursuits Dickinson enjoys. His new marriage gives him the contemplative assets for even more lovely poetry. http: //dorrance.stores.yahoo.net/moliheandnow.html)
A Painter Of Words
My easel is a word, a phase
My pen is color blue
The brush applies a tinge, or
accents
A pointer, a blue
A palate wide ere consummate
It strangles time now space
Wide as imagination's vast
To compliment line with grace
Idea, a drop of color
It splashes where it may
Widening as it spreads
From instant to a day
And, the canvas in varied
likeness
To a person, scene, or space
Inanimate of the painters
Slash
Imagination in a race