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When Madness Rides on Moonlight

Debbie Guzzi Avatar Debbie Guzzi - LIFETIME Premium Member Debbie Guzzi - Premium MemberPremium Member Send Soup Mail Go to Poets Blog Block poet from commenting on your poetry

Below is the poem entitled When Madness Rides on Moonlight which was written by poet Debbie Guzzi. Please feel free to comment on this poem. However, please remember, PoetrySoup is a place of encouragement and growth.

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When Madness Rides on Moonlight

Days pass into the weak, loveless nights. The moon blinks.
The stars swirl beneath Van Gogh’s brush, as he links.
Comet light passes twisting cypresses, a schizophrenic’s concussion.
On and on, the wind twirls the trees, and does not complain,
nor, does the cosmos cringe awaiting reciprocation.
Lightning bugs mimic the stars. Atoms sneer.

Those who spout love and friendship abandon him, sneering.
Their images dance beneath his lids, when he blinks.
Though denied a compass, his soul does not reciprocate.
Through pain, physical and mental, he still connects, links
with the life which absorbs and excludes him, not complaining.
Nights pass without his mistress, Sien. His mind is concussive.

His face trembles torn in the brass sounds of the storm’s concussions.
The butcher, the baker, the candlestick-maker, all of them, sneer. 
How unmerciful, this cycle, this God to whom he does not complain.
If lack of mercy is just, may he not know why? Time blinks.
Thinking causes pain. Only painting connects him, he links.
He accepts art and the pain, as gifts, choosing not to reciprocate.

Voices, the paint, the moon, the voices say, reciprocate.
He chases mice. The cheese plate falls with a loud concussion.
He rubs his gnarled hands across his lids. He maintains the link. 
How? Why? But, the mice eating his cheese only sneer.
The sunflowers shimmer and wiggle in their vase, as he blinks.
Stumbling, he falls attempting to sit, the chair does not complain.

He had thought God clear as sunlight; yet, the paint complained. 
He was not God; he could not capture the light. He must reciprocate.
After all, who was he, but a mere man, ashes to dust; life blinks.
Ah death, le grand mal, no minor concussion,
He must escape, join the celestial spin, and avoid their sneers.
Sick, yes, sick to death of not being understood, not linking.

The brushes call. He prostitutes himself. Oil spills, connecting, linking.
Theo, brother, never would he forgive. Many others would complain.
Ah, Gauguin, His dear friend, he would understand and not sneer.
If God was truly a loving God, surely, he thought; God will not reciprocate.
The mockers who did not live in Dante’s nine levels of hellish concussion,
they will call his actions cowardly. Merciless, they did not live between the blinks.

Copyright © | Year Posted 2015

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Date: 1/4/2017 9:49:00 AM
I like this very much. What are the "blinks" you speak of? I want to understand this better, and I think I am missing something. Are "blinks" moments of blindness? Am I close? Let me know.
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Guzzi Avatar
Debbie Guzzi
Date: 1/4/2017 10:14:00 AM
a blink breaks the visual circuit which breaks the mental circuit and what happens in that small piece of time no one knows
Date: 10/25/2015 12:28:00 AM
I love this :)
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Date: 10/22/2015 5:41:00 AM
So much great fantasy, so much art, your fingers own a touch of gold this morning Deb,sending my love xxx
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Date: 10/21/2015 11:58:00 AM
A truly powerful piece of work! Befitting of the unique towering genius that was indeed...Vincent van Gogh!! Beautifully presented, Debbie. A Seven + for me! My very best regards! :) john
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Date: 10/21/2015 11:19:00 AM
Debbie, how wonderful is your muse that gives your pen such depth, I love this 7 and thanks for visiting my poem, music of the gaspe
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Guzzi Avatar
Debbie Guzzi
Date: 10/21/2015 2:14:00 PM
I loved your poem dear heart!





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