He is the abstract of his drawings.
Nightmares are blank canvases. He
passions direction to fill in where
the common have no knowledge.
The frame is a restriction, but like
stonewalls, they set a boundary to fulfill
Sleep steals the moment of the brush.
He awakens with color and depth,
stretching out dreams into static images.
He suffers
the pain of indecision. His hands were
born with talent, a gift from angels.

Roger Singer


The march of umbrellas. Half stretched
domes against turbulent clouds.
Faces pitched forward. The rhythm of
drops is the exhaust from heaven. It’s a
temporary wash of mankind, touching
coats and hats but not the heart. There’s
a walk of escape to a point up ahead.
People blur the canvas of motion, fighting
against the forces of nature. Everything
is awash in the color of wet.

Roger Singer


Black balusters and mahogany stairs
lead gracefully to a parquet second
floor landing. Decades of voices carried
the water of words to this quiet
circular elegance surrounded by
bookshelves and photos of New York
and Paris. Gold painted plaster
moldings wrap the area like decorative
ribbons. It all speaks with identity
and belonging; above there is a frieze
of a garden in continuous summer.
Through a wide set of leaded windows
a forest is in the distance.

Roger Singer


What does someone see when you
offer them a glimpse beneath your water?

The pillows of your dreams

Wilted emotions

Thoughts without makeup

Eyes listening but not seeing

Sunless days

The joy of rain

Favorite words

Fear of death

The honey of a smile

Running away

Closed doors

Acts of faith

A song that brings tears

City streets and strangers

Dirty hands

Unfinished conversations

Failed desires

Second chances

The next corner

Roger Singer


There is no unhappiness in a
Its industrial beauty shrugs with
Seasonal wars have no effect on its
There is nothing porous about it.
The stones once buried within ancient
soil are like diamonds and pearls,
protecting the perimeter of its
Fortune blesses the license of its
presence each day; a statement of
From a shuttered window the patterns are

Roger Singer


It’s my shoreline. A place of
footsteps and whispers, high clouds,
blue cobalt skies, forever horizon;
it’s a song I live. A moment brings me in,
an hour holds me tight. It’s a place
without time, without changing, it holds
the strength of me. I am the shadow of here.
I stand on the edge of myself, the backside
of the beginning. The escape with a forever
door. Rain or sun changes nothing from
where I stand.

Roger Singer