ARTISTIC MOTIF


19

i

Our talents were exceptional, and invisible
Deviant in our lack of public merit
Or civic utility, we were paranoid
Maybe suffering from delusions of grandeur
It was expected, our heroine was art
Photography, poetry, music, painting

ii

We were illiterate in living
But so full of life, so wide open with love
Our circumstances were humble
Our personalities sensitive, we had
The potential to become martyrs & lonely
Our class was a privilege in knowing
How to suffer, suffer embarrassment, learn humility
Empathy, by possessing nothing

iii

But the faint property of our own creative genius
Our families may not have spoken openly
About our sickness, of our obsession with
The search for beauty, for our sequence
Of originality, we were broken, unable to earn
A pit-bull’s living, to be a good rat

iv

Our infatuations felt as beacons of our muse
Our drug was as dangerous, bi-polar birthright
Born creative, our life-expectancy was lowered
We who don’t drink, might still sure like the dark continent
Known as chocolate, anything to keep us up at night
Registering the failings that make us whole
Discovering the first love that could not die.

Photo Courtesy: http://www.deviantart.com/art/painting-76736088

DIVING INTO THE POETIC WRECK


18

i

This is the place
The thing I came for:
A moment of the pause of poetry
Where life melts into meaning
Barely objective, the subjective-myth
The tentative haunter of my spirit
Who circles me silently in the night
While I sleep, the eyes
From which I shall return

ii

This is the place
The cowardice of courage
A half-destroyed instrument of soul-sense
A freedom in failure
I came to explore the wreck
Of the human condition
To taste things for myself
Slowly along the flanks of hidden treasures

iii

It pumps my blood with power and chi
The kind of oxygen charged with blue light
That sends the author in me some hope
That I may write questions worth asking
I have to learn alone
I have a lot of work to do.

Poetry Courtesy: http://www.deviantart.com/art/Just-a-perfect-day-292908195

KINGDOM OF ANGELS


17

i

Barefoot as an unremembered dream
I’ve felt a calling before Time
Well before the pull of necessity
Delicate as childlike fantasies
I felt a spiritual mission as bright
As other unmet worlds, fast friendship

ii

With ideas, impressions, faces, angels?
A hunger too subtle to explain
Outside of Sanskrit terminology
I’ve heard lullabies too surreal to conjure

iii

A jazz of Goddesses outside my limits
Beside a neighbor’s house, that represented
Everyone, the fading illusion of you and me
I’ve felt on my skin, a prophecy of the deepest blue

iv

The skyline of stars over my head
Quartz waves of Heaven’s fragrance
The honeyed embrace of a galactic telepathy.

Photo Courtesy: http://www.deviantart.com/art/The-city-turns-Orange-67780269

MY SOLE AND EXCLUSIVE STANDARD


16

i

You do not just hold my hand
You hold the affections of my Universe
Without one thing all would be useless
“Oneness”, unity, empathy, connection
Call it what you may, it’s here
After a life of being abandoned

ii

It’s by stealth and fire and trials
That we come to realize
We all belong and are carried eternally
Already you see I have escaped
From you, the drama, the mystery

iii

It’s all gone, I’ve come to an understanding
With the world, with existence
I’m determined to befriend everything
In a platonic ideal beyond appearances
That embraces all creeds, cultures, religions
So called separate divisions, all aliens

iv

You do not just hear my voice
You feel my spirit in my language
And that’s all I can ask for
Without this it would be useless
To attempt to communicate shared meaning.

photo Courtesy:

http://www.deviantart.com/art/The-moment-after-43427550

SONG OF POETRY


15

i

All literature and anthologies
Celebrates what I assume you shall assume
For a unity of atoms in hearts
As distant as the big-bang to the furthest galaxy
Writing is then a leaning and a loafing
A waiting for poetry to start

ii

My tongue to my blood
My children to my ancestors
It all started from an original energy
That can still be observed in the summer grass
My soul speaks sometimes, so I listen
Across centuries, to a thousand poets

iii

I hear their songs in me, hoping for beauty
And the distillation of a lifetime of observation
I am mad for it to be in contact with me
The full-noon arpeggio of my greatest works
Perhaps I shall never discover the love-root
The undisguised heart of the language
Of the spirit for which I seek

iv

The mystic thrill beyond words surely
But I wait for the lyrics of a silk thread
For some golden and silver moment
When my vowels listen for greatness by the shore
And I steal a play of shine of forever
And infinity washes over me changing
My cells, my brain, my organs my expression
The meaning of poems is finally to be liberated.

Photo Courtesy: http://www.deviantart.com/art/Autumn-Ethereal-81379364

YOUTH WHITE AS DEATH


14

i

Light drips from your face
This is your true element
Rainbow skin glowing of youth
I could look at you a long time
Wonder about your genes
Laid on a canvas of flesh
Created for beauty’s own rite

ii

Lips with the hue of the dawn
Eyes the color of lost Oceans
Pushed into the scene
Your necessary breasts that heave
As you breathe, your bud and bloom
The thick rapture of your hips
Whole biographies swim in your movement
Swallowed are the appetites of this world

iii

The temporary triumph of homo-sapiens
Over this dreary planet of deconstruction
All for the certainty that you can melt men
From ancient Egypt to New America
This is your true element
Women knitted in breathless years
That spread difficult ordinary happiness

iv

With just a look, between the years
Of seventeen and twenty-three
Six years of sacred shine my soul wheeled back in time
For your body the gold in my ears got hot
Miraculously kept in its essentials
Your skin radiated something that slipped through:
Fertility, as a necessity of life.