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 © Debbie Guzzi | Year Posted 2015
I have this story of the garden of evil I saw.
Darkness called to me, I was drawn inwardly.
Walking, a glimpse of beauty came into view.
She intrigued me as to why she was inside.
When I stepped in front of her she smiled.
Not an ordinary smile, one of pure wickedness.
She spoke to me calmly at first, as my eyes did view.
Transformation began as her beauty faded inwardly.
I swear to you that I felt like darkness had smiled.
Her shape changed and now a devil my eyes saw.
Beckoning me she said come with me inside.
My soul captured my mind knew now wickedness.
She told me that I was hers now as the demon smiled.
That I had to take my place beside her in wickedness,
Which the garden of evil was now placed inside.
That the evil call had embedded my heart inwardly.
As she took me aside to a mirror where I could view,
What happened to me, undeniable is what I saw.
I was changing outwardly, as well as inwardly.
My eyes were blood red and horns came into view.
I had become her male counterpart, we both smiled.
Within a couple of moments, I was lost in wickedness.
Then out of darkness other creatures came from inside.
More and more demonic creatures are what I saw.
She said, Meet our armies that mankind cast inside.
That she had waited for me, again her lips smiled.
Upon wave of her hand a mist came into view.
It was me in previous form, yes, you were evil inwardly.
Your whole mortal life you felt you had no wickedness.
Suddenly I knew she was right, this was a prediction I saw.
My destiny was sealed; garden of evil will keep me inside.
A consort I will be to her evil heart, fulfilling wickedness.
Thinking back in my dreams I could have changed what I saw.
Though forever and beyond, darkness grows inwardly.
As we held each other, a vision cast came into view.
We looked deep into each other’s eyes and we smiled.
What we both saw, within her womb something was inside.
We knew we shared wickedness, as the birth came into view.
Love, lust held inwardly, looking on, our baby demon just smiled.
Note. This was part of a dream I had and I feel it was a release to write this to help me fight my personal demons that have always plagued my mind and dreams, maybe I watched to many horror movies when I was younger, I have seen almost all of them more than once
Copyright © cecil hickman | Year Posted 2011
The imagination of the Creator
Brought to life the unknown and invisible
Shot out was the atomic ball of fire
That was inflated and sustained by wind
The outcome of fire and wind was water
The whole process gave rise to our own earth
But the earth had to be a useful earth
Needed was the wisdom of the Creator
He pushed aside the hovering water
Just to make visible what was invisible
The main instrument at that time was wind
And the great help came from the light of fire
Element of heat shone the light of fire
And the source of life had begun on earth
But to breath living things needed the wind
Succeeding was the plan of of the Creator
Since the evil one was still invisible
Or she was taking form beneath water
Element of liquid gave forth water
That have power to quench the flames of fire
Thanks to the Creator, the One invincible
For implementing His good plan on earth
Where we discover not many a crater
As we cruise around where blowing is wind
Element of gas gave forth solar wind
With some elements that can form water
And that pleased the great mind of the Creator
His bright smile came forth as white light of fire
White light that shines to illuminate earth
So that nothing can remain invisible
Thanks to the Creator, the One invisible-
With visible works unlike invisible wind
The wind that remains invisible on earth
Earth, the only solid element with water-
In the solar system that blazes with fire
All of it, the creation of the Creator
Even though our Creator is invisible
He has got power over fire and wind-
And not the least over water and earth.
Copyright © Richard Gumede | Year Posted 2016
Will I ever know how to write
Will you ever know what I wrote
When I was idolized and free to write?
Will it ever come to be eternally
That in the grave fore I lie
In the world I never die?
Copyright © Messoh Vincent | Year Posted 2016
The traffic was strident, lanes straight
the cars lined the street and froze rigid.
The cop with a glare of pure hate, directed
a line of gate crashers cutting.
The sidewalks segmented in rows, false
lure more tourists into a queue.
Cowed were young folk and old folks all queued
a ménage which was quite far from straight,
all had come for a peck at the Bard, false.
even a librarian or too, who waited with spines rigid,
and scowls on their lined brows like cuts
their critiques would be most direct.
Teens kiss in a clutch most directly
their faces make braces of queues
Scalpers hawk to the latecomers cutoff,
the elite meet and greet heading straight
for the red road with a rigid
line of bull filled with falsities.
Inside the antiquated theatre under false
the foot lights lining the aisles direct
Mayor and matron, gran and child in rigid
alleys to velvet seats also queued.
The stare of critic and patron glared straight
64 toward the author so pinned and cutting.
A bright white light cut
the chill air so false
and focused on drape lined straight
each fell open as artist directed
and orchestra swells filled their queue
and the author he sat stark and rigid.
His fate would he find in lines rigid
on the page of tomorrows review, they’d cut
make or they’d break his heart’s queue
these piranhas with smiles so false.
No fate could be more direct
this tonic he must imbibe straight.
So like dominoes, they fall lines rigidly, piercing cuts
Filleted be he by queues false,
in the end words directly aimed, straight to death cue.
Copyright © Debbie Guzzi | Year Posted 2010
When the clock ticks towards the end of July,
I begin spending all too-hot summer days painting the blue-jay,
A rare and almost-majestic mini, hard to find the right color paint
For. But on good days after sunset the air becomes crisp
Enough for me to enjoy the change in temperature corresponding with my change
Of mood or palette, all-encompasses occurring under
That unfabulous shroud of melancholy, that, under
Which I cannot keep safe-keeping in July.
When the colors on the page scream for need of change,
I ignore the plight of the real blue-jay
As he exists in this reality of crisp-
Air-fragility which causes my paint
To dry and crumble like the immature cheap paint
Of a five-year old hanging just under
My incomplete summer canvas crisp
With hopes of an increasingly hopeful July.
I stroke the brushed-over blue-jay
Feathers fake on canvas which changes
With every motion of my hand, changing
The color of my paints
As I allow them to drip over the image of my blue-jay,
The reality now out of sight making reality more clearly hidden under
The lie of a canvas in late July.
It lies hidden under remorse of lies, crisp
With not-yet-oncoming autumn crispness
Teasing me with surreality which changes
With every movement of a hand this time of July.
I methodically repetitiously move my hand to paint but what I thought was real
was revealed as not under
The surreal thought of the canvas as the actual blue-jay
Who fluttered his meaningless blue-jay
Wings a long time ago out of sight—crisply
Seen crawling around or over, when it should’ve been under
The hammock tree in the rain, recently changed
To my favorite willow peaceful-painting
Locale no matters the month, even July.
The time the blue-jay wants most to be changed
By the crisp stroke of a masterful painter
In the yard, under the hot sky just after mid-July.
Copyright © Brooke Wolfe | Year Posted 2007
She has her moments
of blissfully naked self-revelation
entirely safe. Fear and doubt have no meaning
her fullness and loveliness, grace and perfection
beaming unhindered through infinite space
absorbed in joy, reflected as love.
She falls in love.
The pleasures of hours pass like mere moments
sighs of contentment expand empty space
oozing with wonder at sheer revelation
of made-for-eachotherness, soul-mate perfection
ripe sensuality, rich primal meaning.
She searches for meaning
confused by words that speak nothing of love
desperately scrubs to restore to perfection
an ego-free union of life in the moment
she struggles to unearth a new revelation
oblivious to needing some space.
She ponders dark space
devoid of all meaning
blind to perfection.
She senses perfection
pervading the intimate vastness of space
silently, patiently buffering the moments
who clamor and bargain and wrestle for meaning
heedless of ludicrous contexts of love
with cunning they seek to prevent revelation.
She receives revelation
willing at last to accept her perfection
of pure bright mysterious trembling love
existing in all points of time and of space
“thou art god, god art thou” finally has meaning
eternity no longer parsed into moments.
Transformed by revelation, at home in space,
birthmarks of perfection, saturated with meaning
breathing and pulsing the rhythms of love. She has her moments.
Copyright © Nancy Jones | Year Posted 2006