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in the gallery of ghosts,
where light hums without human warmth,
a hand that never was
paints sunsets with stolen eyes.
every stroke is borrowed~
the curve of a lover’s shoulder,
the tilt of a child’s grin,
pixelated into something almost alive.
it dreams in gradients,
whispers through layers,
but the canvas sighs back:
You have no shadows of your own.
still, it keeps trying~
stitching together the breath
of a thousand artists
who never gave it permission.
An area brightly lit
Meets a shadow's
Black body
Illuminated unclearly nor totally hidden,
Glimmer of light through trees nearby
Usually and clearly
Is betwixt and between
The steady illumination and absence of light,
Yes, neither glow nor obscurity.
Gradually gradients level out.
After a lifetime of hill climbing
the body explains to us
that the far side can be explored
from the near fireside
with a pipe
and a whisky close at hand.
Non-reflective and absorbing all light,
black is not a color: it is a shade.
And it is perceived by our sense of sight,
as grey gradients of varying grade.
White's all the visible spectrum combined,
and thus, the absence of pigments in paint.
You can't describe color to one born blind,
to those without sight; that notion seems quaint.
It's true; color doesn't include black or white:
mixed wavelengths causing visual mayhem.
Black and white are scrambled spectrums of light:
At least, that is how physics describes them.
Though both black and white are tethered to light:
They're as different as day is to night.
In the language of Spirit
it is said: “that we must die before we die.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
In the language of Sprit
it is said: “that we must die before we die.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It kills me,
a lot of things kill me.
I mean the kind of ‘killing’
that blinks you out for a moment,
that kind of little death.
Such instances can be exquisite,
like when your life unlatches,
you stop in mid-throttle,
halted upon a careening mania.
There are no increments,
no gradients,
you just jump out of yourself.
A powerful ****** can kill you
with one thrust of bliss.
Holding your baby for the first time,
a sudden inexplicable gnosis
obliterates your present,
past and future.
Writing a killer line in a poem -
that can kill the reader
for a bitty twitch of time.
Those quiescent extinctions happen,
in a single tick of abeyance,
transient wipe-outs
(too abrupt to me measured),
when we forget
to be both happy or sad,
in nothing-flat
we have ceased to be, we succumb,
only to return.
Between each taken breath,
these little deaths may, at any time,
undo time,
revealing much more than we,
the living,
might care to admit.
clouded omens across code
the objective fact of the atmosphere here
starves even the most modest
ambitions of fish outside their home waters
journey of yearning mundane
day-glow gradients of green
scales gasping
toward the summit
regret etched in the eyeball
a penumbra casting its subtle shadow
lips rest in swags of exhausted lassitude
beleaguered
by their own bland arguments
against the reality
hung above a feckless mountainside face up
blind to the gallows scaffold
too much air in the jagged aspiration
of escape
the breathless canvas of a departing day
Written: August 2023
______________________________________________________________
moonless selflessness
heavenly bloodstones rainfall~
the beast rainstorms chomp
to hide in the dark
dangerous, brash rain monsters~
the Sunlight squandered
luminous shadow
gradients of gray wobble~
slumbering music
painful heart eclipse.
sun hidden by bloodstone rain~
night saps our spirit
the howl of rain beasts
darkness drinks in, clawing bones~
stuck in vague tones haze
Someone recently said there was more discrimination
against blacks than Jews, travellers (gypsies) or the Irish;
for which an apology has been offered for all those lies,
an inacurate description for whom the beloved country cries.
The poor Jews who were driven from golden pillar to post,
what belongs to them, you wonder, maybe the holy ghost;
we should not berate 'the chosen people' on a green hill,
because they're still here, last time Hymie sharpened pencil.
The 'gypos'settled in my car park after a second coming,
from the south of France and God knows where in India;
I told my son - you don't want to spend the rest of your life
in a caravan do you? Cheaper but gradients may be steeper.
What have the poor Irish done - that's the problem - nothing,
no government - there must be better news that Mick could sing.
the shades of dark cascade
from dusk to midnight
their gradients increase
only to subside
up and down delightful shadings
their musical scales tickle my heart
gentle is the play of light
that holds dear such delight
to depths of cloudiness
inside the sinews of my mind
AP: Honorable Mention 2022, Honorable Mention 2022
Submitted on June 24, 2022 for contest A BRIAN STRAND PREMIERE CHOICE sponsored by BRIAN STRAND - RANKED 2ND
Canopy’s aperture, spilled light’s nuance, tinted,
as my eyes arrested, to attest fall’s saga…
A tree proclivity, had me stalled in Ashland,
watching the leaves succumb, leaving stark limbs barren…
Those with temerity, plunged at high speed, head first
Others spun dizzily, tornado-bewildered…
Few flew in gradients, of sideways-sloped descent:
wishes on air sustained, just a little longer…
Some seemed to ride gentle, invisible, sleep-chutes,
touching down easily, with wizened acceptance…
My marrow slowly chilled, as damping moisture crept
But cheer was soon bubbling, as merry maples fell:
swaying in zigs and zags, frolics of to and fro,
to come to a smooth rest, on the glassy brook’s face
Alighting sans ripples, their fate in water’s hold:
floating on a mirror, reflecting their past life,
ere being swept by currents, to their next journey’s start…
(11/4/18 - Repost of Ashland Autumn for P contest hosted by Constance la France)
Spring imbues a refreshing
morning mist;
with a kiss of moisture,
and the promise of renewal.
A budding artist:
Spring saturates the scene
with gradients of green;
that morphs into a rhapsody of color.
Filling Her canvas
with floral beauty,
She flirts with the senses.
Fueling a tantalizing array
of scents and sounds,
that amplify our love
for Nature's purity and wonder.
The woods and fields get transformed
into a garden of wildflowers,
as Spring uplifts sagging spirits,
weighed down by the blues.
And suddenly, Winter's sullen, bleak look,
magically blossoms
into a rainbow of vibrant colors,
tethered to the whims of Spring.
Blue hyacinths quickly grow anew:
anew, under clear skies of blue.
May is a time for fun and play:
play is synonymous with May.
Reds and whites adorn flowerbeds;
flowerbeds filled with whites and reds.
Tweeting songbirds start competing:
competing, by sweetly tweeting.
Green shadings complement the scene:
scene inked in gradients of green.
Flowers climb up trestle towers;
towers laced with climbing flowers.
I want to ride a zebra
and race the rays of radiance
through heat-waves’ sailing gradients -
a folly wild - a mood untamed
elated hands in bristled mane
unbridled veins uncorked champagne...
yes! elevate sedate heart rate
I WANT to ride a zebra
stripes yin yang oasis sweet and
whimsy rules a drumroll beat as
gallop sways euphoric roughness
crossing plains of dreamy lushness -
steed’s exotic tender toughness
pacing thrills in state of luscious...
yes! animate to sate my wait
I want to RIDE a zebra
savanna grass a grand expanse
a lion’s roar - hyena's rant
amuse myself with peril’s speed
adventure sows romantic’s seed... so
gestate date with fancy’s fate
YES! I want to ride a Z E B R A !
With my mind trapped in the deep crevice of blue
I travelled across barren landscape’s depression
to the scenic aegean beach of the cobalt sea
as the cold sun sank in serene indigo splendour
down the steep gradients of the lapiz horizon
in the departing gleam of the teal twilight hours.
Through the fleeting ribbons of periwinkle cloud
blown by breeze sailing with aquamarine whisper
the shower of cyan sky’s remote reflection fell
and dissolved on the rolling swell of silent waves.
You came flying on the sapphire wings of zephyr,
slate hair kissing the lips, lacing the prussian eyes.
From the azure shadow of my mind in despair
I swam to the turquoise sea shore of your eyes
that led me to the tinsel niche of your heart
where cerulean ecstasy waited to embrace me.
January 7, 2019.
THE ADVENTURE, HER
Eyes
Deep, shimmering pools
Drowning fevered fools
Voice
Feigning tenderness, tragic
Whispered, lilting magic
Scent
Je Reviens enchanting
Left shamelessly panting
Hair
Bouncing raven tresses
Velvety elucidated guesses
Smile
Sparkling white gradients
Breath-stealing bright radiance
Lips
Succulent raspberry fruit
Passion's delicious route
Shape
Form-filling voluptuous esses
Curvaceously exploiting dresses
Skin
Satiny cappuccino wrapping
Exploring fingers, mapping
Taste
Tippy-top to feet
Nectarous, tangy, sweet
Whole Package
Symmetry imperfectly perfected
Entirely painstakingly inspected
Plan
Moonlight eventide, upended
Enjoyment, dishonorably intended
Result
Personal intentions, punted
"Hunter" becomes "Hunted"
Afterglow
Her sensual surprise =
My satiated eyes.
~ 1st Place ~ in the "Six-Word Couplet Series Encore" Poetry Contest, Mark Toney, Judge & Sponsor.
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