Floyd the Cosmic Turtle

Floyd the Cosmic Turtle, he’s on top

Floyd the Cosmic Turtle, swims a lot

He transmits on all the wave links but receives on only one

Floyd the Cosmic Turtle, he’s on top

Floyd the Cosmic Turtle, roams The Void

Floyd the Cosmic Turtle, can’t avoid

The prayers of all his faithful, who know he is The One

Floyd the Cosmic Turtle, roams The Void

With flippers always moving, his shell is hard like rock

Floyd knows we all are sinners, he’s keeper of The Clock

You mock him at your peril, he doesn’t need old priests

You’ll never, ever see him swim up lonely darkened streets

Floyd the Cosmic Turtle, he is The One

Floyd the Cosmic Turtle don’t need no gun

His eyes, they are all seeing, his ears, they hear your heart

Floyd the Cosmic Turtle, he’s The One

Billy Radd
Asheville

The Way of Mistakes

Nature makes no mistakes, ever,

for judgement is only the realm of humans.

Animals never go down the wrong path,

for all paths lead somewhere.

Fish never get lost as they swim the waters

as part of the great chain of life.

Trees know their way as they reach for the sun

with their roots seeking water.

The smallest speck and the largest galaxy

unerringly dance in evolving unstable perfection.

Make no mistake about it.

Only humans define good and bad, left and right,

benefit and detriment.

Evil and righteousness are equally meaningless.

Nature moves always, all ways in perfect equity

while we decide to define justice, love and right, 

or prejudice, hate and wrong.

In this way we place ourselves outside nature.

This is our biggest mistake.

Billy Radd

Asheville

The Seed of Artistry

From where does the inspiration of an artist grow?

Some creative seed planted in the forming brain in a mother’s womb?

Does it ride the first morning light peeping through a nursery window?

Is it in the lonely sound of the cold wind of a passing storm,

or the first rain drop to kiss a newborn’s warm face?

Or,

Does it naturally exist in each person’s mind as a condition of being alive,

but is either allowed to wither from disuse or abuse,

discouraged by the constant neglect of others to recognize its existence

or

encouraged with love, attention, opportunity, and conscious nurturing?

Look into the face of an infant.  

Answers lie in the potential of innocence found 

and the eternal opportunity of elders to facilitate emerging art there.

Billy Radd

Asheville

The Moment Critique

Notice the texture, the subtile depth of an edge

the perfect color of the spaces between

where nothing exists

except the potential of an instant

to evolve into what was not

ever before.

Billy Radd

Asheville

Habitual Ritual

Habitual Ritual

Can’t see too much from the inside,

outside of the music inside my head.

Was I running away from myself only to find

I’m up against, at last, an endless wall of men?

From the day I was born I was told what to think.

Strange, now that I’m older I can see

from the top down that the bottom is a sink

into which everything I do, say, or think disappears.

But, this is next to impossible to hear

when you’ve got nowhere to hide, 

everything to lose

and the end could be looming quite near.

Holy Moley, I can’t get the idea out of my head

that sooner or later, no matter what I think, say, or do,

I’m gonna be really, finally, unequivocally dead.

Oh, the wonder of it all, the wonder of the small.

I can’t remember the beginning, and won’t remember the end.

Life’s not a road that goes anywhere but in a circle.

So, I’m riding all the colors, notes, smells and flavors

like a jockey on a horse finally coming round the bend.

Billy Radd
Asheville

Bricks

Bricks that tell a story fired in stone,

clay from other ages, tapestry sewn

fine, hard linen all in a day’s work,

never seem to weaken 

while cold dead men shirk

the will to contain what we all hold dear

standing up against the outside,

it’s inside we should fear.

Billy Radd

Asheville

Of Color In Color

Curves around and about

the shapes of colors 

moving in circles 

around the walls 

of my inner space 

bouncing like golden balls 

leaning to and fro 

from the amber glow 

of a soft light

catching a slice 

of dark rainbow

in a bottle

Billy Radd

Asheville