the first version of this poem... the second is already on the site
i am his ink
i am the noise of his fireworks
though he hears me
my flash of color
my beauty is first
my sound is distant
and delayed
i am his paint brush
creating beautiful things
that others appreciate
he thinks are mediocre
i am his oxygen
giving him life
and power
and worth
i am all of these things
all of him
and he sees through me
words fastened to paper
with the stroke of a pen
i am his ink
“The woman or man who is a poet, or fiction writer, or playwright, or all of these, is engaged constantly in a jazz ballet of vocabularies, passions, genders, histories, perspectives, death, love, and life. The music of revelation announces itself to
Each person is but a grain of sand resting beside the sea. This thought sets the tone for Jill Eisnaugle’s latest poetry collection, Beside Still Waters.
Perhaps "..Quiet Storm" will help rekindle old flames buried and long forgotten or express the love so deeply locked inside of your soul longing to be released.
Regardless of where you may be found in love this beautiful masterpiece can be
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