Breezes fresh as births of youthful young,
They blow tunes of songs that were never sung.
A beautiful land away from the slum,
Where things are the whole and not a crumb.
Mountains with wide whirl winds within wonderful wonders,
Which waste and wash away harsh thoughts of thumping thunders.

Shining streams, streaming sounds of a spectacular superb story,
While wide and wet green grass graze and gaze giving gapes of glorified glory.
Big bold bushes delivering black slithery shadowy spots,
But only courageous colorful colors of habitation that never rots.

Clouds caught cleverly in creative creation,
For righteous reasons of resting relaxation.
That dream was created from my hands,
The mountains, ocean, sky and sands.
My idea of a perfect world,
Where things are straight,
But to bad they are swirled.

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Oil on Canvas, 1999