I think of every artist as a poet…I’m not being fanciful or quaint…

their poetry is on their canvas…their verses overlapped in paint.


Their capacity to see the poetry in a moment…and their ability to lift…

and capture the beauty in the silence of that moment…this is the artist’s gift.


Every moment of every day and night the Earth is painting across her skies

producing an ever-changing masterpiece….right before our eyes.


The Earth paints frenetically…attempting to fill the vastness of her space

But…since her painting is never completed…

it’s up to our hearts, our souls and our eyes to keep up with her pace.


We try committing a moment to memory….we try unequivocally.

But, since the mural is changing so rapidly,

it’s difficult to hold on to any one moment that we see.


Enter the artist with brushes in hand and colors to be blended…

who chooses a moment…while the Earth is painting as quickly as she spins…

and the very moment that moment ends…is the moment the artist begins.


When the paint on the artist’s canvas has dried

We see not only that captured moment in time 

but how beautifully the colors mingle…

how they harmonize….

how like poetry…they rhyme


And we feel lucky the artist and our paths have crossed.

the road ahead of us now abundantly clear…

for though the artist has captured a moment in time

our hearts and our minds must take it from here


It is the moment when our heart and our mind meet up with our eyes…

we are finally able to see…

the beauty of that moment in time 

the beauty of an artist’s silent poetry.


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A question often asked of the old poet is how she does it…how do the verses she write come to be…A question often asked of the old poet is where does she finds her spark…the inspiration…for her poetry.


The old poet smiles and, I imagine, people think she’s playing a game…when she says, “My answer may be different today than yesterday…but it will always be the same.”


“Whenever I see two people meet for the first time…whenever I watch a friendship begin to grow…I discover in those moments…there is poetry in hello.”


“Whenever I see two people holding hands or kiss…whenever I see sorrow on a face appear I discover in those moments there is poetry in love…and there is poetry in tears.”


“Whenever I hear the melody of the birds in the morning…whenever I listen to a voice sing beautifully and strong…I discover in those moments…there is poetry in song.”


“Whenever I see a person painting…whenever a painting touches my heart…I discover in those moments…there is poetry in art.”


“Whenever the shifting clouds…a rainbow…or a sunset makes me sigh…I discover in those moments…there is poetry in the sky.”


“Whenever I see a couple dancing…watch the trees bend in the wind…or the waves undulate upon the ocean…I discover in those moments…there is poetry in motion.”


“And whenever I see friends and family gathered round a loved one who is about to die…I discover in those moments…there is poetry in goodbye.”


“This is where I find my inspiration”…the poet smiles as she happily exclaims,

“And If you ask me tomorrow my answer might be a little different…

but it will always be the same”.

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“Excuse me.” The young boy said to the poet, “If you don’t mind me asking…where do you find your words?”

The old poet smiled at the young boy…”Sometimes…” she said, “they’re in the voices of the birds.”


“Sometimes they’re with my friends and family…sometimes on strangers in a crowd…sometimes they rise up with the morning sun…sometimes they’re drifting on a cloud.”


“Sometimes they’re on a ladybug, a butterfly…or a bee…sometimes they’re floating on the breeze…sometimes they’re high up in a tree.”


“Sometimes they fall with the leaves in Autumn…sometimes with the Spring flowers they seem to grow…Sometimes they’re stretched out on a sandy beach…sometimes they’re playing in the snow.”


“Sometimes they’re on the wings of love…Sometimes on the shoulders of pleasure or pain…sometimes they’re left behind by some animal…sometimes they fall from the sky with the rain.” 


“Sometimes they crawl out of the forest…sometimes out of the darkness…they emerge…sometimes they run so fast I have trouble keeping up…as out of the ocean waves…they surge.”


“You ask where I find my words.” She said smiling at the young boy, “I hope by now you see…I do not find the words I write…they find their way to me.”



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He watches as she finishes reading one of his poems.

She smiles as she always does…

but he can feel her sadness too…

“How often I have wished,” she said.

“I could write poetry like you.”


“But I can never find the right words…

words transcendent…

words sublime

and even if I were to find them…

I could never make them rhyme.”


“Ah…but that is what makes us so beautiful”, he smiled 

“for wherever we may roam…

I may always be the poet…but you shall forever be the poem.”


“I might pen words that are transcended

words that are sublime…

but you” he said as he kissed her forehead

“you are the reason my words rhyme.”



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Into The Mystic

This is a book of magical poetry.
That will inspire you and perhaps life some burden off your shoulders.
Come with me on this beautiful dance of words. If you would like to purchase this Ebook and need it in a different format or language we can arrange that for you. Cover design by Ravenscraft Studios. https://payhip.com/b/u56E

I Don't Know How It Goes

I Don't Know How It Goes



What do I write about?
The story of my life!
I don't know how it goes, do you?
It's a matter of question to you and me to ponder on.
This side of eternity once given is true........or false in ones perception of it all.
Do you remember or is it I've forgotten in all this distraction freely given, to what ends I do not know.
Make believe is what it is I think. It's here in one moment and gone in the next.
How could it be anything other than
Games, we all play them, in hopes to gain some more of it.
Of, 'it'!, whats 'it'?
Life I said. Don't you remember?
or have you forgotten what it is, what it's all about.
I'll tell you what, lets make believe that I am you, and you are me.
Okay now, tell me about your life.
I don't know how it goes, I've forgotten you.
             Copyright 2018 by RW Erskine


I was never the tattoo on your skin

lasered on with indelible ink

I was mere henna

meant to be only temporary

until either time, water or boredom

washed me away

without a second thought


nor any visible trace



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Field of Gray


He is a burst of color


in a world painted gray


painting vibrant scenes


in his own special way


shining on me  


like a broad sunshine’s ray


he is the smile 


that brightens my day


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Tickle the Ivories


Tickle the ivories


across my octaves


along the sharps and flats,


the major and minor keys,


in chords of harmony


alongside my melody


rising in a crescendo


the rhythm of our song


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