Sun Dance.

If only I could 

throw words 

onto the page

like Jackson Pollock 

threw paint onto the canvas,

a kind of divine anarchy,

beautiful chaos

celebrating nothing 

but itself,

iridescent,

dripping molten stalactites

in flouro red, orange and green

descending

over the primordial world

aeons before 

the red blaze cooled

and life emerged,

slowly,

laboriously,

from the cobalt blue.

Published at One Sentence poems