In a drawer of an antique bureau
a yellowing, frayed piece of paper
scrawled memories … a passing year
Triumph, fear, derisiveness, happiness
Triumph of accomplishments
I’ll try to recall what I did
I’ll try to forget how it felt
I’ll try to hold my tongue
I’ll try to appreciate more
A list prepared
As I build the fire
To toss the bad away
Only retaining the good
My list goes up in flames
Ashes floating in the night
She tells you she can fly …
The girl with the dragon tattoo.
Takes you to her room:
fishnet, lace, decorated with silky bows
magenta, black, red or the rare virginal white
in a pile on the floor.
Stilettos, sling-back pumps, knee-high boots,
costumes for every occasion.
Seduction, temptation is her plot …
Young girl that moves like a gazelle
gracefully through the crowd,
sizing up the innocent
with her lustrous eyes, lined in kohl.
What catches the crowd’s attention:
Stockings wrapped firmly about her thighs.
I watch as she picks her victim,
with her beautiful smile and those sexy
stockings … she’ll take you on a flight …
At the countdown he eats a grape
to the twelve chimes of the bell.
Making a wish with each one.
He decorates his home with
red, yellow, green and white.
Hoping these colours will bring
love, happiness, and stability.
For his New Year’s party, drinks flow, food is served.
He dances to the joyful tunes while the children play.
ii. More about the dead man reflecting on the New Year
He sees himself laughing, toasting to good health and prosperity.
While he’s wearing fine silk pajamas and a smoking jacket.
He places twelve grapes in a bowl, he won’t reveal his wishes.
(suffice to say 586 times be undone)
Someday he thinks he’ll talk about it.
All will be different for the new year.
He ponders about what is coming to him.
His best laid plans are finally going to arrive,
as he slips into oblivion …
Avant-garde art manifesto
Rhetoric, meant for shock value.
Freedom (of expression)
Crucial elements – the exposition …
Teacups and saucers suspended
from blue moon dreams on swinging beams.
Delightful romps through conversations
of marshmallow buffers.
While someone sleeps standing up
pretending to appreciate, behind closed eyes.
Champagne toasts and hushed voices,
lipstick smiles that seem to sneer,
raised eyebrows held up by stilts.
Open invitation for a public to critique.
They’ll never understand,
It’ll be written in the manifesto.
An artist who doesn’t survive …
A highwire act with old ropes,
his last performance.
Then he’ll vanish …
Squeezing into leotards too small.
A slight limp from a prior fall
(maybe in the basement)
His manager says “Be swift and
immerse yourself in the role.”
Placing the ladder with strategy,
he makes the careful climb.
He steps upon the wire
only slightly off,
as he topples to the ground.
Disloyal fans hoarse from shouting,
burst into a unison of laughter that sounds
like the roar of engines.
His grand exit …
Plaster gets put over hurt …
painted with an old brush.
Many times – paint won’t adhere,
concealed behind masses of despair,
a façade you frequently wear.
We plaster it once again trying
wallpaper trimmed with fancy edges.
until it bursts from too much fatigue.
I have tried with my hand outstretched,
a grasp never felt …
I pulled subterfuges away – slowly.
When a sparkle came through,
a fragile dance round a subject.
Bricks and blocks come in handy,
say what you like –
I’ve never listened anyway.
Prepared with paint and plaster
in abundance of fear and suspicion.
Weeping glacial mountains that look like,
orchids in a forest flattened in bark.
Where are the conversations of mine?
Solitude’s encapsulation to erase my dread,
to reveal my words so hidden.
Things that should have been said, others missed.
Days filled with happiness, sorrow comes at times …
You stood against interpretations, when all was obvious.
Reflections of lost loved ones,
potpourri in a linen closet, reminds me of my mom.
Memories vary in every realm – life
Feeling the softness of a hand placed upon my shoulder,
listening to the words dropping around me.
I’ve read musings, some of despair, others of joy,
or just a few funny words … to start my day
Many kinds make this world what it is:
harmonious, peaceful or
consumed with angst, strife.
Nothing can be changed from what it essentially is,
I’ve thrown the bucket of desperation far away.
Musings are a reflection of interpretations …
Hiding in a book … to drown
the vicious voices from the other room.
Paper – crayons
lined up on a table,
your amiable friends.
Where pictures of princesses
escape to love.
Music from a jewellry box with its tiny ballerina,
a melody to float you away.
Frilly dresses – dainty socks – patent leather shoes.
Still the sounds of discontent fill a lonely house
... a child who survived along the way.
Now you build paper castles to show the world
where happiness lies within prism walls …
Rivoli’s hummingbirds circle round
flowers searching for sweet nectar.
I stare between creased petals,
watching the sun rising from
behind a disintegrating building.
All hope seems blighted.
I have draped myself in muslin cloth to
shed my skin of yesterday. All juvenility is
replaced with worn out memories. But
the colourful birds still entrance me.
I move closer.
ii. More about the dead woman wondering about nature:
While I died with those thorns fastened
deep within my heart, I thought of nothing
but the beauty of the arts, as music played
from grand pianos and violins in a stream.
Syncopation runs rampant and furious.
I count the seconds on my wristwatch.
It seems they are moving backwards, so
I may wait a little longer. As an apparition
I can unite with the living one more time.
To savor the artistry of existing and
delighting in what surrounds me.
It curls around my senses
Enwraps me into ecstasy – remembering
Water flowing in a cascade
Aromas of a kitchen …
Mother smiling and laughing
Chopping, stirring … a taste of home
Water rushing on the shore
Where seagulls look for morsels
Hot summer days and cold winter nights
Scents that excite the inner self
To bring back memories of comfort
Like a blanket wrapped tightly
round my shoulders – warmth
Fragrances of life
Restless hands, a desire to create
Never enough time …
Staying busy is important
Like water that rushes down
a mountain and becomes frozen in midstream
Fingers move in synchronized efforts,
forming – reaching – trying to make sense
Light through a window catches shadows
that spark interests and ideas
Creation, imagination, allows breathing, slow and steady
Pyramids pile high, placing layer upon layer
As we construct what we believe,
An expression of ourselves
Red satin shoes that tap
along the skyline.
Resonating through my brain.
Formations flow ...
Sequins sparkle causing rainbows.
Illuminations – Frivolous ...
Limitless beginnings and endings.
Twinkling – drops of contour.
The future is crystallizing promises,
Happiness surrounds, butternuts and chicory.
Lining a cloud above, clicking and repeating ...
Walking around in circles picking up
wooden nickels, placing them on the ledge.
One by one they’ll stack up high
until they topple over.
You run, trying to catch the perfect
symbol, tying them together tightly.
Woven in a pattern of perfection,
for all of us to see – Revealed …
Perfect shapes in different hues.
Till they send you off for picking up,
those worthless wooden nickels.
Left behind in a line …
Suspended upside down
in the crevice of a red mountain
Seatbelts locked in place
Air bags – imploded
Ribs left bruised and fractured
Engine is still idling
petrol is boiling – boiling in my brain
Escape is never easy – windows won’t work
Brakes gave way
Down the side you went trying to cling on to something – traction
60 metres – upside-down
Damn windows don’t work
Neither do the brakes
Nothing is functioning right now
A reality becomes unreal
Somewhere in a desert mountain
I read the poem and it reminded of an event
Unreality by Elizabeth Langemak
A trouncing remark
is supposed to be forgotten.
Like a crushing boot …
Forgiveness rests within
knowing there is
no gain in retaliation.
I’ll forgive what you didn’t say.
People come – go
sometimes it’s best
While snakes live in darkness,
occasionally coming out to sun themselves.
Waiting to strike.
Slithering in my path.
Hiding in the tall grass …
I dreamt I was directing,
a fantastic Hollywood production.
Carrying the brightest light of a moonbeam.
It took me to a place,
I had envisioned in the darkness,
when by myself.
Where it’s calm and peaceful.
And the stars were dressed in white.
Silver spangles hanging from
their waste coats.
In the script, it was written
“We merely exist as one”
Showing different sides for
the world to see,
a table moved, skidded
across the linoleum.
My fantastic chair fell …
It brought me to reality,
reveries will do that.
Sometimes I get lost in my
thoughts as they move in
an obscure direction, forgetting that
I'm not lonely or sad and must
Beware of …
the desperate and confused
wandering around me
just looking for
a place to lay, to
burrow in my skin.
Bloodsuckers all around
love to poison
with vicious lies …
Always looking for … a victim
A scorpion’s poisonous tail,
one sting you’re
Watch them chase their tails
as they sting themselves to death
“I was so chuffed all day,
I forgot to tell you what
I really thought”
I’m on a quest to rid myself …
of a man-eating plant that has
big decaying leaves and a gnarly mouth,
that tries to consume and poison
all those that come near.
Just when I least expect it,
this old flower strikes me from behind
trying to knock me down.
But I’m resilient,
I’ve dealt with far worse than she.
I’m sure there was a time when in her prime,
she flourished and bloomed,
now as she grows old
all beauty is left unrecognized.
Replaced by cynicism and bitter thoughts.
This wilting blossom is losing momentum
with each passing day.
Soon she’ll come uprooted,
we can finally put her to rest in the bay …
If not I’ll hire Chance the gardener
old weeds must go …
"Be alert and of sober mind.
Your enemy the devil prowls around like a roaring lion,
looking for someone to devour."
Chance Gardener fictional character from
the movie “Being There”. As for the quote
I figured it was quite suitable.
My words sometimes flow in
perpendicular directions, so
hard to make a connection
At times my words offend someone,
with no means to explain,
I feel like burying
my head in the sand,
(that’ll be a long bus ride)
Instead I move along
Take what comes my way
I write because I love to
I feel the need to say,
what’s on my mind:
Doesn’t mean I’m going over the edge
Nature takes her course
Things are in place
She can be such a trickster
Cunning and deceptive
When you think everything is going well
People you love – die
Worse – forget that you exist
Friends turn their backs
Or stab you – never saw that coming
Your dog dies – your cat gets hit by a truck
Seems the joke is always on you
(I’m not trying to be negative)
It’s just the basic facts
Nature will always take her course
Without consulting first
I need an antidote for my pain,
that rises and causes me discomfort.
Aspirins don’t work … but I try.
The bittersweet is relevant.
You need an antidote for hatred,
that rises and causes you discomfort.
Kindness doesn’t work … but you try.
The sweetness is irrelevant.
Antidote and snake bites run together,
Tides will rise to push their way past the orifice of ebb and flow. With fury flooding saturated land – soaked – waterleaf. Sand-filled holes and rocks will obstruct the onslaught. The moon … Has her own ideas. Rising full – smiling. While hiding other times, looking at you from behind dark clouds, all the while she is plotting her next course.
Gratitude is thrown off sometimes like Roasted peppers that burn the senses and Ardent smells that enter pores from the fire to The thicket covered with prickly thorns Imbued with poisonous buds that roam from Tension to relaxation, usurped we lose our Understanding of what we care for, exaltation becomes Descriptive of emotions, love and sympathy aren’t Eluded, if we pay close attention to ourselves
Shoes worn down to the soles of his feet,
his trousers threadbare
Everything he owns in a plastic bag,
from a supermarket down the street.
Nameless might as well be faceless.
But, I observe his movements,
does he run with no particular destination?
If we throw a coin in his direction,
will that make a difference?
He hops trains moving from town to town.
Sleeping on park benches,
pillows are old newspapers with the latest
A scar runs along his shallow cheek
Marks the day that he began to run
I cupped lush flowers that were passed
around the room.
My hand worn with callouses — time
I touch the roughness of the skin …
discoloured from now on.
Awake now —
Wander through clunks and clinks.
Like chains suspended from creaky rafters.
Putting us in jounces too small — contain.
Hung upside down in an ash-pit.
Forklifted to our destination.
Resurfaced only to realize,
the nib of the falcon has sent
you to the boiler to burn on open flames.
All my dogs wear sweaters.
One is an Oxford scholar,
from Scotland or so they say.
We have a Harvard tramp.
He ran with a wild bunch in his day.
A Berkeley bitch
Don’t know why, she’s not liberal,
hates everyone (except me).
At last we come to
“The Tribeca tart” the cutest of the
bunch .. She says “New York rules!”
I guess she’s right.
Currents push me hard against
barnacles on the post.
My sister said:
“Like in thick lava I swim
with nothing to grip”
Wide hips and plaintive smile.
A pool of ash and molten
rock — we’re stuck.
No way to navigate
this viscid cycle — with the
darkness in our hearts.
We try to be ambiguous and
righteous, but that twists
And all the while I swim …
In a beautiful blue lake where
snakes won’t grab my ankles.
Reverse, reverse, reverse, people.
Move in a wild que and put feathers in your hats.
So you can pick up coins off the cellar floor.
Swept up by magic brooms.
Long ago the script was thrown into the fire,
only ashes remain.
Illegible as if scrawled with ancient words.
Forward, forward, forward, children.
Run in an crooked file and place sequins on your cheeks.
Remove gems from rusted mounts,
set by fairies with silver wings.
Who cast spells while you sleep
Tiny, little shoes
Dance around the attic eves
Broken, frayed, twisted
If I were to tell you my views,
firmly gripped in my hands.
Would you take the time
to listen to my speech —
so carefully rehearsed in front of mirrors.
Or would you close your
mind and refuse to hear.
Should I sit on my hands,
and not do a damn thing.
unsaid — in time all words
fall on empty ground.
With no-one to pick them up
and dust them off.
He walked miles …
never reaching his objective.
Waving arms and cheering smiles,
waiting on the other side.
No place to call home.
Waiting in the coldness.
Icicles forming on the trees.
The bitterness within him,
substituting warmth in his heart
Explosions all around …
As the moon begged him to
forgive with the stars guiding him
like fireworks bursting.
Over the mountains … he climbed
“How far to your destination?”
“Can I give you a hand when you
“dame un mano, por favor”
Arriving at the bus stop.
“Could you help me with
For hours we travel on the
rough back roads.
Sweat forming on our brows,
“Could you open up the windows?”
It is much too hot, hoping
for rain, to take away this stifling
You turned to me and said,
“Do you mind if I leave you
at the next stop?”
You never needed my permission
You decided to take your life
Façades built by you.
Nothing equal to what you,
say or do.
To be perfect like that in
all aspects, trying to fit
boulders through the eye
of a newt.
Never happens …
Attempting to catch
sand that flows in an hourglass.
With filters in fingers.
Pouring through small openings.
Beyond, above comparisons
you fascinate me,
Watching you twirl the world round
a room in perfect
unison never missing a step.
Peerless, my heart flows freely,
to the melodic tunes.
All things turn into windows
As doors open to separate
Sections on the highway
If closed shutters are rusted,
then we must use
Inner-strength to open them,
Winds blow ...
Beckoning to be released
Doors, windows and shutters
A gaping hole which once contained
your soul, you try to fill the void with
whiskey, wine and sleazy partners
Squatting in a disheveled room
Grey, tattered curtains — once white
Cigarettes butts spilling from a chipped ashtray
Empty food containers rotting in the heat
Dirty linens splattered with stains
From your empty life
The stench is overpowering —
Sweaty bodies, unbathed, filthy
A life of degradation
A gaping hole of life
I place the pebbles on top of each other
alternating their colours.
Creating a mosaic pattern that becomes
pleasing to my eyes.
In my mind they form Sahara deserts,
In my dreams they form hidden treasures,
My moat is well-formed and protective.
To keep the warriors at bay, as they
try to force their way in.
May they drown in the stinging waters
To step over the slightest line,
Ideas seem vague
Less than brilliant
Every once in a while a light,
in the dimness
Mundane becoming exhilarating
One language crosses over to another
Formed and cohesive
Poor struggle to survive
Scraping the ground for morsels
To feed their hungry babies
Some say “life is what we make of it”
If never given the alternative,
Can the arrogant feed the homeless man,
sitting on the corner
He’s humbled beyond what we see or feel
Looking for dinner in a dumpster, fetid with disease
As cockroaches crawl across him while he sleeps,
rats his mascots in the alley way
While we take another sip of wine,
and wonder what shoes to wear
No one wants to be filled with fear
what happens next,
Clinging to something that has no substance
Waiting, trying to see …
Hyperventilating you can’t breathe or think
Darkness surrounds you …
To shed the outer layer,
of devolving turbulence.
A mindful stance of the rotating
cogs in a filtered existence.
Wheels turn …
moving without lubrication
Being placed on a table.
Electrodes placed at tender temples,
sending fire throughout the body.
Altered for existence.
This prompt made think about ES therapy.
My mom worked as an RN supervisor.
In a psychiatric hospital for several years,
in a NY state institution. At that time
this form of therapy was legal. I am
quite mortified that it was ever legal.
I laid out the dress
While you picked out the jewels
On satin you place your head
A beauty in life-death
So cold to touch, now
Where has your spirit gone?
Is it roaming over open fields,
where flowers grow wild
In the fiery sun
Or soaring through the dark clouds,
looking for a place to rest
When I look up at the stars,
are you watching me?
As we put you in a final,
resting place beneath the tierra
Asphalt roads, steam rising from,
their steel covered eyes.
Grated sidewalks, sounds coming from within.
Exhaust fumes suffocating in summer,
inviting in the winter snow
Plated glass: reflections of ourselves
Concrete walls surround me,
I feel life from within them, alive
Birds fly high over head
I am once again amongst chatter,
laughter, cries and sorrow
That fill the city streets.
Intense it’s found in whirling winds,
cyclones hit to tear apart the structure.
Flinging splinters on the eaves,
rampage is forced upon the open wound.
Salt poured in and festering, malignant scars,
bolts slash across crooked angles without edges.
While bleeding eyes contain no justice,
for the weak of mind and spirit.
An onslaught of wicked rain soaks to the core.
Gripped tightly in its fist, furiously, pleading,
for it to come to an end.
Flowing gowns and silver slippers
Hair piled high with gemstone clasps
Glossy painted lips
Tuxedos and slicked back hair
A sign reads “Enter at your own risk”
Do the promenade (it’s free)
At the bal masqué
Cover your eyes and smile slyly
Our identities concealed for the night
We move under crystal chandeliers
While the champagne spills on to the marble,
beneath our feet
We don the silken masques
Hands hold diamonds, emeralds, rubies
We dance to the orchestra never revealing who we are
A decoupage created from my life
Colours are vibrant and alive
Chagall, Van Gogh and Dali
Freida sits at an easel, sorrowful
Che with a Cuban cigar,
smoke curls round his mustache
mingles, as the devil hides in the guestroom
Waiting for me to sleep,
So he can dance round the room
To his solemn tune
An angel lives under my kitchen sink
I’ve seen her wings and cherub face
A gallery of faces
Mirrors in every room
An eagle at my front door grasps a snake
in its beak
Mayans watch my cat, sleeping on the couch
While lazy dogs lie in the morning sun
Who created this catastrophe?
Wormwood grows wild in the garden
Spirits roam looking for a place to rest
Candles light the way, while I place
marigolds on the table
In ’84 I met a girl named Janie Alison White. I loved her like no other.
I made her my wife. We lived happily enough. I wrote; she cleaned.
And the love we made was the sweetest love I have ever dreamed.
In ’86 she began writing; I encouraged her. She was bored with cleaning;
I was bored with her. I’d been having affairs for a year; she’d been faithful to me.
And when I read her first poem I knew what had to be. She was better than me.
I began plotting her death. She wrote with pen and paper. She never made a mistake.
Her words were music haunting me from each and every page.
She asked my opinion of her work; I wanted to lie but I couldn’t.
I said it was good but she’d have to improve. And I’ll be damned if she didn’t.
She asked me how to get published. I told her I’d handle it.
I put my name on her poems. Something I’ll never regret.
One night as I sat beside her, reading her beautiful verse,
I realized she’d written enough; I wouldn’t need her anymore,
for she’d written with abandoned grace.
There was enough unpublished work to keep me forever famous.
I got my gun, blew off her head, dragged her remains to the attic.
Cut her in pieces: little pieces. What surprised me was:
each piece recited a poem. I turned on my tape recorder while
cleaning the bloody mess. I hurried to my typewriter,
transcribing from the tape. I heard a sound;
I turned and looked. Janie stood behind me, misty,
transparent, reading her poetry. “It’s pretty good,” she said.
“I know.” I published her pieces in a volume.
It won a Pulitzer Prize. I got a grant and fame and fortune.
I never lost my pride. How one carves his path in this world
should never cause regret. And Janie stands behind me,
reciting still in death. She has volumes to fill.
She’s pleased with the arrangement; at least she doesn’t complain.
She’s such a talented poetess. I’m such a happy man.
You might think I’m crazy. I know that I’m not.
Janie stands behind me; apparitions do not rot. I put her name on my old work;
that seemed to make her happy. Some of it even got published
but died quickly on the shelf. She didn’t seem to care.
I gained great wealth. But she won’t let me leave this desk
where I sit and write her prose.
When I try to rise her frozen breath pushes me back in my chair.
I’ll never leave this room. I’ll always have to write.
For Janie stands behind me. She never leaves my sight.
Yet sometimes when the moon is full I imagine she leaves this room.
I wonder, does she have a place to go? Perhaps a tomb?
I still transcribe her poems every day and every night.
My own could never compare to those of Janie Alison White.
The only lesson in this life that I have ever learned is to
take and take and take and take, leaving nothing in return.
“For Janie stands behind me. She never leaves my sight.
Yet sometimes when the moon is full I imagine she leaves this room.
I wonder, does she have a place to go? Perhaps a tomb?
I still transcribe her poems every day and every night.
My own could never compare to those of Janie Alison White.”
by Michael Barnett
While I sit beside your grave, on All Hallows’ Eve
I read the inscription, written so long ago
“Here lies my beloved bride
May she rest where the daisies rise”
I visualize what your body looks like now
Decayed and crumbling, your once golden hair
brittle … sparse …
No eyes to see with, no mouth to speak
Have worms entered, taking your spirit away?
Do you rest peacefully?
When they heaved the earth upon your casket
Could you feel the weight, pushing you toward eternal sleep?
Are the cold nights lonely for you, in your private bed?
As the rain pours over the ground, soaking through the earth
Does it reach your brittle bones, forming icicles, hanging and suspended?
Do you still listen to the waterfalls, so close outside your home?
When the veil is lifted between living and dead
With marigolds and incense to soothe you
Will we feel at peace?
Process notes: I borrowed the prelude to this poem from
a short story my husband wrote some years back. My husband
is a writer and editor.
I have reached a crucial intersection
I call mine
Time has been a friend to me
It’s all I own
The sadness we perceive, can always change
Enjoying familiar faces
Seems sometimes I have nothing new to say,
it becomes camouflaged
I follow the itinerary of this road, crossroads form,
which way to turn
As the creases are left, never right, ahead lies the destruction,
have I gone too far?
We place sparrows in the sunsets and watch as they fly
While happiness and sadness run streams — paralleled
You have everything that is needed,
before you make a wrong turn,
blue jays … circle
Listen to the crows sing their song …
Treetops in autumn against a stone, blue wall
Fairies singing lullabies in your ear
Christ in my handbag nattering incessantly
Purple, blue, red swirling high
This is not the dawning of the Age of Aquarius
Reasons that make you wonder
Aspirin coloured scum floating in a martini
tryptophan-enhanced turkeys grunting up from my dinner gravy
Angels wandering the hillside
Clean pond-scum enhances my illuminated bible,
chug a lug, chug a lug
Vomit spilled on the clean carpet
Get the Hoover
Demons running in the yard
Trying to collect the errant silverware
Grey clouds moving in
Absorbing unfettered visions
Looking for an unhappy soul
Jesus annoying me nattering from my handbag
while the orange cat twas ever,thus
Romans with a spaceship
And a Popiel Pocket Fisherman
Mayans with swords trying to kill the populous
Scrotum-scratching, snickerwarts interrupting and
trying to compete with an ever more obnoxious messiah ...
from my handbag
Falling, many notes that don’t concern me
As they spill into my glass of milk, the chupacabra drools goat blood
making pretty swirling sensations,
reminding me of a cherry shake without olives
Sacrificial thoughts remind me of where not to go ...
... like Cambodia, with its swaying palm trees,
sashaying in the autumn treetops against a stone, blue wall
Having laid your wrath upon me, as the twisted words,
are released from the darkness in your heart.
Brusque attitudes enrapture vice.
Your pride got in the way and envy is surrounding me.
Gluttony at the feast was grotesque, like lust lying
with its loins spread open.
The greed of the minions spilled poverty on the crowd.
Like a futile sloth you crawl below the surface.
When the tale is told for everyone to hear:
A sliver of light enters the fissure in the wall.
It has the smoothness of a golden chain — twisted.
It winds itself round and encompasses softness.
As a sharp, jagged edge moves along the surface.
It rips open the contents of the sky, unraveling,
pouring diamonds and sapphires onto the blind.
Guiding them on the journey, so that they may not
fall … and drown
A colour that makes you think, might just be anger.
The colour of anger to some, is not the same for everyone.
Red. I pity the people who live in a bubble,
that has left them isolated. With no-one to care for. Blue.
Words are their weapon and a tool to hurt.
It´s like a bruise on first impact. Purple.
Time-takes care of harmful accusations and heartlessness.
It´s a forest filled with foliage. Green.
It´s like a wound disappearing. As you continue to exist. Yellow.
Black is created
Chartreuse can become mellow
Orange changes love
I dedicate this poem to some of the unpleasant
people who I have had the misfortune of crossing
While all the others watch with great wonder
Place the candles in the stands to burn,
with wicks too short to withstand time
Wax melts on open frames
Si bien todos los mira a los demás con gran maravilla
Coloque las velas en las gradas para quemar,
Con mechas demasiado corta para soportar el tiempo
La cera se derrite en los marcos abiertos
As I sing the sad song of years, gone and forgotten
You perceive goodness and heartbreak from all things
Bliss causes tidal waves of injustice and corruption
Catch the closeness of scum which lies upon the pond
Como yo canto la canción triste de los años, pasados y olvidados
Se percibe la bondad y la angustia de todas las cosas
felicidad hace que las ondas de marea de la injusticia y la corrupción
Captura la cercanía de escoria que se encuentra en el estanque
We pull back the curtains, let the breeze in
Open the windows of eternity
So that we can escape through the roughness
Only to spiral back on the downfall
Tiramos las cortinas, y dejar que la brisa en
abrir las ventanas de la eternidad
Para que podamos escapar a través de la rugosidad
Sólo una espiral de nuevo en la caída
Everything lost—becomes essential
Todo lo perdido—se convierte en esencial
Encapsulated by the light of the screen, which divides
and joins all living things on this earth.
Enlightened — we must take great care.
Entrusted with a sincere heart, that will carry us
through the narrow bridges.
Engulfed in hardened arteries of time and haste.
Embrace and relinquish all hatred — form the soul.
Engrave an everlasting light from within.
Exemplified — putrid, rusted veins open
to release the vileness.
Envision this as life ...
And The Moon And The Stars And The World
Long walks at night
I walk under the moon and wait
I stare at the forms in the door
Are you listening to the cry of the owl,
deep in the woods
I watch the domestic fight with sentiment
Throwing china plates and crystal,
that smash with fury against stone walls
And shatter to pieces: on fine linen sheets
As silk lingerie is hung from ceiling rafters
So that we may watch the sorrow flow,
from the unfaithful
the moon the stars and the world
I just close my mind, sing to myself
Nothing ever satisfies
Soup is cold, meat never cooked enough,
Send it back
All you ever do is whine and cry
My hair, my shoes, my makeup just isn’t right
The weather is too cold, cloudy, sunny, rainy
Hasn’t been a perfect day since '56
Year before you were born
When I see the reflection in the glass
I know it must not be mine, it has to be yours
Take your lover in your arms
Change the colours
to black and white
Chanel No. 5
Eyedropper of oil
flowers, rose du mai, jasmine,
and a synthetic musk
'a concrete' to 'an absolute'
Blend to create a scent for the world
A memory is stirred by the trace of a bouquet
Chanel No. 5
A millinery girl with flair
From outside my window, I see how all things change
As the paint of years gone by starts to crumple and fade
My view has changed, like the shadows on your frame
I painted you with red enamel, dressed you from the inside
So the world may see how beautiful you are to me
You are my window; you capture life as it slowly passes
As I sat in the pew,
while they prayed for your soul.
To be delivered from evil.
I knew not my lines in this life.
I looked at your body, covered in a shroud
of fine wool tailoring, a matching silk tie.
Powdered skin, blushed cheeks.
Unlike you in real life, to me frightening, surreal.
Cold to the touch, a dreaded kiss on an icy cheek.
An obligation, we must say goodbye.
We shall dance round the pyre ...
It’s just a flashback
Snow covers the ground.
Magic ice castles are on a crystalline surface.
Cold air nips at all senses, glide on to the setting.
Friction over the ice.
As ice curls and cuts on shiny blades.
(rock over and bite)
Bodies bent radially, flexing of knees,
cut into the ice.
Into another world . . .
Descend . . .
From the sierras
Living off the land
A simple life with no luxuries
Like animals cast aside
Our traditions matter none
A hunger strike
To alert the world
We are the indigenous
From the sierras
There is a horrible
situation going on in the state of Oaxaca.
The indigenous have no rights.
If you would like to read more here is the link:
Cobalt blue carries through, it strikes. Red sums up the feelings of anger. Combined it is the purple of royalty that rushes in with great awry. Felt under the light blue sky. Flash red - yellow of the orange sun, with its heat. It floats here in this universe, set them free. Bursts, splashes and splatters to the foreground. Mixed together, becoming a kaleidoscope of colours.
Blue red yellow green
These colours fly around me
Combined, they are mine
It started out as a feeling Which grew into hope:
I searched in open drawers,
looked in locked-up wardrobes.
Could never find what I wanted.
I ran into the yard, stumbled upon a rose bush,
bleeding, red and coppery to my senses,
dripping on the pavement into crevices,
in warm, circular pools, coagulating,
formed, crusted, little dried up rivers.
My hope was all I had, now it's lost.
Will I die with anger in my heart?
I think not.
Will you die with happiness?
I hope so.
Can we live together in peace?
Could be, don’t know just yet.
Do I love you?
Of course, I do.
It is love that makes the world twirl.
Round and round, it spins.
When right, it fits like a glove-perfectly.
It sits beside you, when things feel wrong.
Through trouble and despair, love eases the pain.
Pretty girls with pink ribbons and curls
Grow up to be women
Tough little boys with army truck toys
Grow up to be men
Puppies say please, while scratching their fleas
Grow up to be dogs
Play ring around the rosey, it’s a pocket full of posey
Hopscotch in the park, hide 'n' seek in the dark
At the edge of the yellowbrick road, tell me do you see a toad
If you do, give him a kiss