Best Hieronymus Poems
When your heart
corresponds
with your mind,
then, give it a shot,
you write
back to me
what expressions
you so badly
need
to bleed;
the characterisation
of letters
are alphabet soup
to me, child's play,
peeling tattoos
like bells ringing
over a tongue
not speaking,
I swallow words
hungrily
then I spit them out,
bullets that pierce
a page,
bulls eyes
staring back
through the black holes,
the other silent horns,
all silently complicit
small missions
of truth
cornucopias,
wearing through
the thin fabric
of ludicrous
fantasy
feathers that fall
from soft pillows
quaking against
levees breaking
the barriers hitting marks
the sands of time broken,
river banks splitting,
the bodies drowned
and sucked up
like works of art
in a hyped up
Hieronymus Bosch,
if you are in deep
you can make sense
of it all,
you know you're in it,
that picture, way, way
up to your eyeballs
brushing against
all the others, removed,
flotsam and jetsam
in the wash, sensing
the path they all took,
but the mystery
of never quite knowing,
like a smell, pervades
charcoal tears
melt all the ways
a heart can be kicked
down and gutted
witnessed through
gilt edged windows
full and jaded
to a gate opening,
the sound cracking
like a mouth
terraforming
dustied and green
the shaman soul
found underneath
it all, humourously
rustling sage over
the external,
a serious novice
for burning
small
exorcisms
smoking out
renegades, those
stubborn seeds planted
in long spent sentences,
those true romantics,
the forgotten ill-bred,
well-tilled, rebel poets
small
exorcisms
for burning
Candide Diderot. ‘24
violins.
Modeled by the skilled and clumsy hands
of artists and artisans into an ideal state of she-ness,
a penniless waif appears on a stool
last week a stranger called her Mona Lisa.
Statuesque upon the betrayer
warmed by the lemon-lolly light from
bays of north facing windows, blinded;
she can but blink.
Surrounded by a
cog-notched cyclical wheel of nubile artists—
blooming buds of wildness, vertical sprigs
flail softly on the breezy bounty of
illumination.
Brush and trowel, thick and thin,
the artists stoke her—semblance
canvased by millennium brush biters
maudlin Mary is returned to the pre-historic stew
by the likes of Claude
polished to a pearly perfection
by type A, Hieronymus’.
They were all strangers to her posers,
every bit as much as she.
Royal pretenders in a world
where only the artless
are paid.
Moneylenders rise on their discarded carapaces
beauty sucked dry by the doers and shakers
who spread like choking bittersweet through
the lollypop-light from the bay windows facing north
consuming Mona.
Julie ford Oliver - Famous Models
Ekphrasis
First Appeared in Illumen Magazine Fall of 2014
"Hieronymus Dipped"
The neurochip sucked me like a lollipop ... mind first into the dream,
squeezed my thoughts out like tubes of candy coloured toothpaste
all over the deus ex machina, Hieronymus dipped his brush in
an attempt
to artificially convert me
call it, a “do-over”
I was his primary binary by all accounts
he liked my shades of light and dark
he led me further in,
This he painted on my tongue, “You a muse”
“me?”, I said
He tut-tutted, exasperated
to be exchanging such inane pleasantries,
“this could take some time to complete, I see.”
“how so?”, I smiled
“Dali expects a masterpiece,
and with you in mind,
this will never be...
no easy dream.”
Candide Diderot. ‘24
After: Harlequin’s Carnival by Joan Miro, 1925.PD
After: Bing Crosby - Swinging On A Star (1944)
I try to apply colors like words that shape poems,
like notes that shape music. - Joan Miro
Listen to the mockingbird rings from ear to ear driven in a
frenzy of delight, naysaying the evil torts of Hieronymus
Bosch’s gardens. Feasting on nature’s foreplay, stringing
leaps of fancy, parading to an oompah-pah, lured by a rendez-
vous with Dali and melted timepieces.
to fly
to soar
soar unconfined
soar scored
scored notes
scored lines
The bliss of true tones, winged squirmings,
dancing snakes, acrobatic merfolk swinging on stars,
the ensemble gestates.
Cues coil, ping, the clocks tick; let your
wired heart purr. Jack-in-the Box to Jack outside,
take a spoonful of sugar with your medicine, & twirl
your partner round and round.
First published by illumen 2016
You spoiled my coat
with your vile contempt
and relished your dung lit fires
upon my shoulders
I offered pristine views
you gave a careless void
disturbing me with your disgust
turning my green coat
a vacant brown, filled with death
you stole from my womb
for your own pleasure
leaving empty husks of anguish
turning light into a dark
that burns upon my skin
where death lays in comfort
9/1/17
contest Artwork
painting of The Garden of Earthly Delights
by Hieronymus Bosch 1515
a moral warning of paradise lost
that leads to hell
Cycloidal forms transmuting to the involute
obduration under duress a malleable direction
coming to nothing just the gearing of time
Spartan gates left open to a millennium of thought
three legged animals given there a soft palfrey canter
air floating fish seen and their no need water
still the rusting coulter rusts and rusts
the power such lasciviousness constant thought
why would a simple man under go such agglomeration
deracinate weak seeming silly there the confederations
let us all sharpen so freeing all thought
fools are fools concomitant if you will keep with it
monsters lovely chimeras and beauty
entering the world of Hieronymus Bosch
let us not be reduced to the witch of Buchenwald
interweaving ourselves into their existence
Hieronymus the Hippopotamus,
Implied at times that he was xylotomous;
Even claiming to be most gregarious.
Real time though, he loved to be autonomous;
Only decidedly not anonymous;
Not to mention being quite hilarious.
Yet no one found him to be synonymous,
Moreover, with the crudely cantankerous;
Unlikely even to be obstreperous.
Some friends on the Nile found him magnanimous.
1
Let’s wait
For the frogs
2
She collects
Poseidon’s cum
3
Drop of
Molluscs
4
Tremendous fruits and birds
Hieronymus
5
Points of view
Trickle
6
Japanese kimono
Sunrise
7
Dead face
Color fades
8
a bird sings
Squiggles
9
Spiders
Ancient spinners of tales
10
Arachnophobia
Like Dali eccentric
11
Emails
Ubiquitous handkerchief
12
Love
Ab inconvenienti
13
Misuse
muse
On your imaginary forces work
now seen a place with
Three legged animals with a soft palfrey canter
Air floating fish seen and their no need of water
The lovely birds flying would no need of wings
gods power just trusting resonance of their sings
God is all powerful and said without rules
imagination is false and followed by fools
Let us enter the world of Hieronymus Bosch
place of monsters chimeras beauty and tosh
An interesting muse has form,
not a template of something else,
but its own odd shape.
This muse, for the time being,
is sensually curved like a Ruben's nymph.
It has dimples and plump folds
even though it is a phantasmagoria,
a thing of no reason or sense.
After a seemingly unnecessary stanza break
it morphs once more.
Hieronymus Bosch’s long nose
peers out of a whales birthing canal.
A giant turtle holds the whale upwards
toward a crystalline sky.
A chilly sea-song
is sung by an Alaskan mermaid;
she is either a fishy popsicle
or a lady being swallowed by
can of Tuna
depending which side-up the reader reads it.
The shape now falls apart,
becomes a mythological heaven
where the shapeless dance naked;
only their pink toes and
belly-button eyes can be observed
through a pinpoint of perception
but that is more than enough for a short poem.
Eventually, a crunched-up ball of paper
speeds away defying critical analysis
and the objections
of the openly open-mouthed and non-plussed.
Enjambment- they happen -
most now must publicly admit, that if nothing else,
this has a uniquely shaped rear end.
Saturnalia my Dream
Cycloidal forms transmuting to the involute
obduration under duress a malleable direction
coming to nothing just the gearing of time
Spartan gates left open to a millennium of thought
three legged animals given there a soft palfrey canter
air floating fish seen and their no need water
still the rusting coulter rusts and rusts
the power such lasciviousness constant thought
why would a simple man under go such agglomeration
deracinate weak seeming silly there the confederations
let us all sharpen so freeing all thought
fools are fools concomitant if you will keep with it
monsters lovely chimeras and beauty
entering the world of Hieronymus Bosch
let us not be reduced to the witch of Buchenwald
interweaving ourselves into their existence
though strictly Fermi, and oh...(en Rico) plus sun
dre other parvenues, a rapture
surges thru me,
when audibly communicating, enunciating,
and speaking English words
as if hi ken run
a marathon, or zip to the moon,
(take as cheesy tong in cheek)
from this pun
gent, who relishes reading for my eyes and ears
asper myself, which purported nun
sense ink reese sees learn'n
den earn an award,
especially wash'n black board
den breathing intelligent dust
from eraser head could awk cord,
I utter Hieronymus Bosch, bing enamored,
and aye actually confess
tubby a model United Nations chimp
pan zee, and/or other
type of survey monkey hook can huff ford
Old Rotten Gotham horde
sliding down into the behavioral sink...
exclaiming "oh me jack lord"
and getting rescued then getting less on,
sans get'n taut how (muss elf George Eliot)
tubby comb moored
flossed, milled, and taut
tubby trained for Operation Ready Date
by a coop pull oof oot standing chap,
named Adam West, who poured
salty epithets (reminding me, as they roared
that life iz brutal, short and nasty),
part tickly ne'r the end
wharf hew scored
and majority got de toured
until emotionally, physically,
and spiritually enlightened
By Rabindranath Tagore and Burt Ward.
So many colors
Leading the eye away
From Eve's nakedness
Inspired by "The Garden of Earthly Delights' Hieronymus Bosch circa 1500, Wikipedia
https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Garden_of_Earthly_Delights
01/05/22
Hieronymus Bisch, a swamp-dwelling fish,
musician extraordinaire carved out his niche,
by gathering the garbage humans tossed away
cleaning and sawing, was determined to play
his compositions for the entire neighborhood
and I must tell you, he is very good.
Old horns and clangers, bells and whistles
his mammal friends gathered up many missiles,
hurling them into his swamp with glee and
knowing that soon, great music would be.
Root-i-toot pipes and cogwheels galore
old lanterns, clocks, even a door.
A train caboose from an old broken toy
an umbrella, diving helmet and a highboy;
parts from dilapidated old elevators
and crankshaft from a sunken freighter.
The snakes collected dried out vines
and a tree branch from a gnarly old pine.
Hieronymus scrubbed, polished and welded;
old gears and cranks were properly belted
with drive belts gathered by alligators,
from junkyards full of dead generators.
Pieces of old wiring he managed to splice
to light up those lamps, ever so nice.
Once his Mono-magnifical, Root-i-toot Cranker
was built and ever so very well anchored;
One flip of a switch such music did play
those swamp critters had one fantastic day;
laughing, dancing and singing with glee
they even were joined by a screaming banshee.
Oh what a delightful party they had,
that Magnifical Cranker didn’t play bad;
not one note of his composition was missed;
world fame is the destiny of Heironymus Bisch.
He has a gargoyle on the top of his nose,
a knobby, kibbled excrescence
The gnarly nose is outstanding,
it rules his kindly face like a goblin prince.
Rose hued it is crusted with craters.
Poor old chap, I can’t help but wonder
how age and lifestyle can have led to
a Hieronymus Bosch grotesque
in living flesh.
Be careful what you eat and drink my friends,
beware of the nose that bobbles and bends,
it’s very malformed presence
could be a sign, a tale, a tell.
of a rocky road to heaven or hell.