Long Painter Poems
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Enea Gets the Red Hat
Finally, he's getting somewhere.
Fifty years of age and almost crippled,
prematurely aged, but at last,
sweet recognition rains down
on the poet. Kneeling before Calixtus,
he accepts the Cardinal's hat.
Fancy that.
With every triumph, we're swept nearer Hell.
Each anthem that we sing's a kind of knell.
No matter what we get, or grab, or gain,
we're human, and our lot is death and pain.
Both Frederick and Ladislas
had to do a lot of lobbying
(Calixtus was a Borgia, after all:
and family is family.) Por fin,
esta elevado. Behold the scene.
Frederick with his back to us
and Ladislas holding on to him
(shouldn't that be the other way round?)
deserve their pride of place.
The seething swell of humans
swirls around the little altar,
but can't budge it.
The clear-cut marble doesn't give.
What is the painter telling us?
Men move, and flow, and live, and go,
but soon or later, their
energy is spent?
The Church is permanent?
Regard the four main players,
the upper crust of Mankind's many layers,
yet each one a loser clone.
Calixtus took the throne
already old, and singing one stale tune
(and that, corrupt!)
He didn't use a long spoon
when he supped.
There's Frederick, the Emperor,
a joke. Bullied by his minions,
unhappy, hapless, broke.
And Ladislas, a king without a kingdom,
a cock without a crest,
he's Frederick's long-term guest
(another kind of jest).
A prisoner -- or let's say, at home,
he and Frederick make a palindrome:
august additions to this Pleasure Dome.
Enea: worn out, homesick, ill.
Surviving now on sheer will.
Is that Nature's tonsure, or Man's?
He's kept alive by feverish plans
to mount a Great Crusade --
but we all know it won't be made.
Two rigid windows and an altarpiece.
The Trinity? (The painting is the Holy Ghost.)
Or are those plain, framed panes
the Empire and the Papacy?
You think we're reading too much in?
We point you to one subtle artist's touch.
The youth, right-centre, in the azure cloak,
who's smirking at some "only-I-know" joke:
head cocked, as if he's watching all, askance:
he finds the dainty, double-dealing dance
amusing. Isn't he Rafael?
Hatted like some crimson Cardinal,
he's watching how they rise up, how they fall.
He's waiting, calmly, to inherit all.
In the twilight of existence, where shadows whisper secrets to the restless soul,
Man seeks to escape himself in myth, weaving tales to hide his truth,
By any means at his disposal, he dances on the edge of oblivion,
Drugs, alcohol, or lies, each a mask to hide the fragile self within.
Unable to withdraw into the depths of his being, he disguises himself,
Crafting stories and illusions, each a fleeting sanctuary from the storm,
Lies and inaccuracies, like gentle lullabies, give him a few moments of comfort,
In the flux of consciousness, where thoughts flow and ebb like an eternal tide.
In this river of dreams, I see him, a wanderer lost in the labyrinth of his own mind,
Seeking solace in the myths he creates, a painter of unseen realities,
His heart, a canvas of longing, each stroke a metaphor for escape,
And I, a silent observer, am drawn into the melancholic magic of his journey.
He walks through the corridors of memory, each step a whisper of forgotten hopes,
The shadows of his past intertwine with the light of his aspirations,
In the depths of his despair, he finds an appearance of peace,
A fleeting mirage in the desert of his existence, where lies and truth converge.
In the darkened corners of his mind, the myths take on a life of their own,
Each a beacon of false hope, a star in the night of his solitude,
He clings to them, these fragile constructs, like a sailor to a sinking ship,
In the endless sea of his thoughts, where reality and illusion blend.
Through the haze of his deceptions, a fleeting clarity emerges,
A moment of truth, like a fleeting comet in the vastness of his mind,
He sees himself, unmasked and raw, a soul stripped of disguises,
And in that moment, the melancholic magic of existence reveals its true face.
But the moment passes, as all moments do, and he returns to his myths,
Comforted by the lies that shield him from the harsh light of reality,
In the flux of consciousness, where each thought is a wave in an endless ocean,
He finds solace, peace, in the myths that allow him to escape himself.
And so, in the twilight of existence, where shadows and light intertwine,
Man continues his dance, a seeker of myths, a creator of illusions,
In the melancholic magic of his journey, he finds the strength to endure,
A wanderer in the labyrinth of his own mind, forever searching for the elusive truth.
It all began as my wife and I were attending a
state fair. My wife had joined with a friend,
and the two of them sought their interest and
fantasies. I simply wandered about from one booth
to another until I came upon a gentleman painting
on a canvas. It caught my interest when he sighted
and made eye contact with me about 8 feet away.
Suddenly, I was taken aback as it would appear that
He began painting a picture of me. From a blank canvas,
he proceeded to paint at a pace I had never seen and began
with a FOREHEAD covered with aging lines and sweat.
The sheer sight of that forehead brought drops of
sweat to my forehead.
There seems to have been a prophetic link between
the painter, the canvas, and myself, uniting us like
the confluence of rivers.
Little did I expect that he would be painting a picture
of me. As he proceeded with great brevity and skill,
every aspect of the painting created a like-effect
on myself. As he continued, with watery EYES, he said
such eyes portrayed my own, filled with cares and burdens
of hurting people.
The EARS he painted were larger than normal and embraced
with signs seen only by those needing to speak in confidence
to a trusted one. The tired, weary, and lonely souls knew
that the ears were special and designed to listen to their
cries of neglect and pain; to their disappointment, mistakes,
and misfortunes.
As the painter began with a normal-looking NOSE, he assured me
that the nose was lightyears from normality because it was equipped,
not to pass judgment on the sins of mankind, but to filter what came
through it. And like a tree taking in carbon dioxide and giving out oxygen, such was the nose of my own that he painted.
Lastly, the talented and prophetic painter paused and stared at me
just before starting on the MOUTH. There were no critical words of
caution from him or the mouth he painted. Notwithstanding, unspoken
words flowed into my heart and soul, igniting a change in the way and
tone of my speech. I was therefore informed that my lips of dust must henceforth release more words of divine love.
Not all of our lives are like a box of chocolate, never knowing what we
are going to get. Sometimes, God unveils the essence of our lives in mysterious ways. In my case, it is a 'never-ending story'. But it started
with a blank canvas.
Bob, the cat, lives in the room number 13 of the sixth avenue.
He likes fish, rollercoaster, ice cream cones and Sunday papers.
He's an artist. He's a painter. When people ask him about his latest work, he answers:
"I'm painting the meaning of life. I'm coloring it black, but my inner self keeps telling me it's green."
He has gothic way of seeing materials and articles.
He wishes everyone to speak in fragments of literary lyrics, and then he would spend all his days tangling these fragments making an abstract form out of a puzzle.
He goes for a walk before breakfast; walking on two legs, wearing a leather jacket, and whistling after big ass women are his forte.
He passes Mr. Pumpkin floral shop, turns into the eighth avenue, and enters his favorite café called "Your Favorite Café".
He sits on the second chair at the second table, and orders a coffee:
"Black, dark and bitter like a cat's soul", he says to the waiter.
He sits there all morning, sipping his black coffee, dreaming about how it would be if his past, present and future selves exist together, thinking in sync, and communicating through a common medium of artistic sense, saying words in the silence notes of Van Gogh.
He dances all the way home. If anyone cares to ask, he says:
"I'm drunk in Coffea Arabica, a perfect weed to make you tantalize with Arabian dreams and gives your nerves a breakdown."
Dancing along the pavements, he counts the roses in beats.
One, two, three, four… two, two, three, four… three, two, three, four, and so on.
The number of roses is directly proportional to the number of steps he's gonna salsa in the bathroom.
He sits on the toilet bowl, and deciphers the problems with human rights.
He stands on one leg on the bathroom floor, with arms spread like hugging the air, mouth wide opens.
He squeaks like a mouse and tries to hop like a rabbit.
He falls hard, crashing the cold bathroom tiles.
He bleeds red like the color red.
He says "Perfect".
He runs into the bedroom. There stands his actual latest work, the heart of a vampire, portraying himself with a deadly cat fangs and a wicked mustache.
He splashes his blood all over the painting, and shouts "eureka".
He starts to hum Yankee Doodle through his nose.
He falls asleep, and dreams about dinner.
"Scramble eggs with tomatoes".
"as an entity in the dream we conjured
we know not we are both the dreamer and dreamed
how then may we wake up when we are in trance
in bondage to illusions we ourselves stream" ~ Unseeking Seeker
D r e a m s
when draped by the dreamed,
connected to the inner consciousness,
is a manifestation~
of etched m a g i c,
composing songs of the soul,
tied to the heartbeat of the Universe,
letting awareness be the curator,
no longer a victim of fate,
but rising as the artist that paints~
peace and harmony,
from pristine pigments,
through blissful brushstrokes,
to recreate a landscape of love,
oblivious to the illusions
that veil our visions with vanity,
confining us to caves
of perplexed perspectives,
with hazy hieroglyphics engraved
in superficial gold
from Cleopatra’s jewels.
And I trace lifelines amidst moon-rays,
grasping the luminous light,
laced with enlightened beams,
waking up from lucid lies.
My thoughts have long floated amongst
brushing off salt-soaked blues
that soaked my skin in oceanic mists~
surreal sea-urchins
that whisper manipulative mantras,
anchoring me to an abyss
that floats with nothing but darkness…
I see through the marine mirage,
the truth that no longer
is trapped in euphoric melodies,
luring me to dance and dwell in delusions,
as if I am a victim of my own thoughts.
So I close my eyes,
let my mind wander through electric fields,
designed to resurrect
the sleeping stars adrift
in my veins, lost in material longing,
blind to the seraphic glows
floating through the air~
Tonight, I taste flavors of freedom,
to attain eternal nirvana,
unchained from hypnotic reveries
that dared not unravel
colors of clarity,
and spices of zest and zeal,
engrossed in mindfulness
that emanates candle-lit flames of truth,
illuminating twilight skies
with dreams drawn
from fingertips of f a i t h,
seeking spiritual clues
to conquer cosmic castles,
detached from the deceptive dreams
we’ve spun with greed and apathy…
For we are;
the dreamer and the dreamed,
the lyricist and the lyrics,
the poet and the poem,
the painter and the palette
the musician and the melody.
We rise and soar
across celestial gardens,
absorbed by the light,
silencing conflicting cadence~
within inner chaos,
forever adorned in sanguine stillness.
Introduction
"The Masnavi of Giti and Saeed" is a modern reimagining of a classic Persian love epic, woven from the threads of ancient myth, Sufi mysticism, and the eternal yearning of two souls. It tells the tale of Giti and Saeed—lovers bound by fate and challenged by the trials of longing and destiny. In this retelling, the timeless language of Persian mysticism meets contemporary poetic sensibility, inviting readers into a world where each image, each sigh, carries the weight of devotion and the spark of transcendence.
____________________________________
Part One — In the Name of God
O Sovereign of the world's design
You know all secrets in the wine
The painter of both seen and hidden realms
Your wisdom guides where fortune helms.
The fountain of each form and face
In You all qualities find place.
Your breath gave life to lifeless clay,
Your light still guides us on our way.
First written in love's sacred flame,
O Craftsman of beauty—praise Your name!
Sweet Venus tunes her aching strings,
For longing hearts her melody sings.
Before all time, Your being stood,
Self-sustained, eternal, wholly good.
None bore You forth, nor child have You,
Yet boundless joy from You flows through.
The lover learned from You to yearn,
In Your sweet absence, watched hearts burn.
We glow with warmth Your presence brings,
And bow in thanks for all good things.
Part Two — The Cause for Telling the Tale
One day, in sorrow for my friend so dear,
I wept for love that brought both joy and fear.
"O Heavens! Why this bitter mask you wear?
Why turn my song to notes of deep despair?"
Without that moon-faced, radiant light,
Each day I burned through endless night.
Each dawn brought cries of aching pain,
Till all the world could hear my strain.
How, when, and where this tale took flight—
With her, so rare, so pure, so bright.
That sea of grace, my soul's sweet bane,
That lovely sprite who broke my chain.
How did she cast me in sorrow's deep sea?
How did her absence wound the heart of me?
So much I wept, so many prayers I cried,
I left it all to fate to be my guide.
Let destiny reveal what it may show,
What fruits from this sweet madness yet may grow.
I wrote this tale of love's eternal flame,
Love came and sealed my fate and carved its name.
Man laying in grass
Wearing the skins of wild beasts
With acorns in hand
A spear of stone next to him
He laughed to himself
His children safe in a grove
With his eyes open
He gazed at gems in the sky
On huge rings unseen
And wonder sung her sweet song
He then saw the gems
Their shape, size and arrangement
He saw animals
And men dancing without cease
“Who gave birth to you?”
He saw the silver mirror
Shining in the void
And saw his face motionless
“Who even are you?”
As he was dazzled by them
A gold disc arose
Disposing of the darkness
The man then with sight
Saw himself with his body
“Who am I in truth?”
He cried for the pearl within
That came from above
Above gold, silver and gems
So he talked with friends
And curious family
To share this found fruit
Sharing it from age to age
Father to daughter
And mother to starving sons
With this meal of fruit
Angels grew out of their mouths
Who gave seeds of truth
Most said all came by grand thoughts
Some said by just chance
Few said that all came from love
Two in ten thousand
Said all came from a mistake
Through these many thoughts
All yearned for the very first
They cried through their eyes
For something beyond their sight
To escape darkness
Though darkness caused their wonder
Out of this darkness
Came the study of wisdom
Two lovers came forth
Both the scholar of wisdom
And painter of words
Were dazzled with bright wonder
Through wonder and peace
The scholar thought through wisdom
Talking through to her
To hold her beneath the stars
The painter instead
Made his art with this wonder
To paint his dear love
They pursued their precious love
For wisdom herself
Not to be hailed as the stars
Nor for shining wealth
Nor even to keep breathing
Few like the poet
And thinker Bardesanes
Saw wisdom herself
And much like wisdom herself
Due to lost wonder
They yearned to see the beyond
Beyond every star
But as wisdom fell from light
And came to darkness
Because of her blind wonder
The men with wonder
Strove to dispose of darkness
And return to light
Where the garden shines above
Above gems and gold
Where the first family laughs
In groves and meadows
Where Christ, the white lamb, frolics
In the grass with the first man
Nowhere on land to be me- Being the prototype of mankind is hard. Maybe I'll return to the sea. Liken to the chicken nesting in the yard, laying eggs, is her job, some eggs she lay are brown, some she lays are white. Yet, the same on the inside
Because like me she's the prototype, I did my job, created you all Red n Yellow Black and White, Same on the inside are you all...
I was created in the image of him who has made all the world, Yet, man is the only ones - Whom over color wants to fight!... News flash, you all came from one seed. if I cut you open its red blood that you'll bleed - Your liver, heart, and Kidneys all look the same, just as a Chicks a chicken, a baby will become a man.
Some earthlings are not as good, and some are not as smart... but each inside of all of them is a beating heart. Some men are small - Some humans tall, some are plump while others; Have not much meat at all.
If God had wanted carbon copies he would have made you all the same- He did not make you different to cuss, kill, and maim, he only made you different so that each could represent his fame: Each a different piece of his artwork to glorify his name.
The ultimate Painter, the fishers of men, the big creator... the maker of man, the infinite mind, the all-seeing eye. The great I Am, the creator of all men. Liken to the chicken nesting in the yard, laying eggs, I am the prototype, some she lay is brown some are white. Yet, the same on the inside.
Unless you've been rejected a conscious spirit or soul, and you hurt my children. My creations are you still, but there are consequences for your actions. What do you think I made assortments for? So, with turned up noses the only claim to your fame is "you are white"...
So, if you decide you only want girls, or you only want boys, you only want red, because you don't like yellow, remember you don't get to have a choice in what's been decided. So, stop killing out of ignorance, or because of skin... ridiculous when you know damn well ... we are all the same within.
Again, like the chicken nesting in the yard, laying eggs is her job, some eggs she lay are brown, some eggs she lay are white. Yet, all the eggs she lay are all the same on the inside. So simple, nothing to figure out, stop killing for color, that's not what life's about.
~It's Only Through Jesus~
(Rhyme)
It's only through Jesus that we can come to that wonderful place
So filled of love, and peace and supplied of eternal grace
It's only through Jesus that we can come to His Father someday
The Bible makes it so plain and clear and there's no other way
God is the sovereign Author of everything upon the Universe,the sea and earth,
He's written it all and designed it all with His own Almighty Hands
God is the Master Painter of everything you see all over the sea and every land
It's only through Jesus, the Perfect Lamb,that we can have salvation for eternity His love is so Grand
It's only through Jesus,that you can have the precious treasure of "new birth" and be "Born Again" spiritually
Just then you can understand and see the big picture, and discover, why so many things really make sense
The importance of God's plan and how much He really loves us all
Nothing happens by accident,He already had a plan for you and me, His love is profoundly immense
Praise be the Name of our Mighty God, because He's in control of everything you can and may not see
It's only through Jesus that we can have life abundantly and eternally, call Jesus! and then you'll see.
Dorian Petersen Potter
aka ladydp2000
copyright@2006
March.22.2015
Authors notes: Reference
Tap in to the truth - Scripture reading: John 3:16
FOR GOD SO LOVED THE WORLD THAT HE GAVE HIS ONLY SON,THAT WHOEVER BELIEVES IN HIM SHALL NOT PERISH BUT HAVE ETERNAL LIFE. -JOHN 3:16
IN GOD I TRUST!
My very favorite Psalm in the Holy Bible..Psalm 23.
Psalm 23 King James Version (KJV)
1 The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.
2 He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters.
3 He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name's sake.
4 Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.
5 Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over.
6 Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.
Amen!
It was the time when art was king,
Of artists whose praises we all sing.
Great minds there were in the Renaissance,
Through eons , unsurpassed, with little advance.
Greatness was embodied in the works of art,
In Lorenzo's gardens did Michelangelo start.
But great there was one of Mona Lisa fame,
Master painter, inventor - Leonardo his name.
Contemporaries for sure, one really wonders
Of the two, whose work steals the thunders.
David, the Pieta, Sistine Chapel, and more
Everlasting they are through ages sure.
But then there's the Lisa, Last Supper, inventions galore.
On their ingenuity and genius, the world lays great store.
Can genius be bestowed in multiple men?
Can peace and tranquility be shared even then?
Can two kings sit and reign on one throne?
Or squabble and fight like two dogs with one bone?
And so, these men of unparallel fame
Were set by chance a mischievous game.
Asked they were to adorn the Council Hall
With paintings to settle rankings once and for all.
With gusto did the two set about
A Battle each to prove their clout.
Leonardo chose the battle of Anghiari;
Battle of Cascina was Michelangelo's quarry.
Great was the strife between the two,
Each strove hard for the other to outdo.
Of the rivalry ,I heard, - the worst of all,
Art was the victim - and the two took a fall.
Relates the great chronicler Vasari,Giorgio,
That the nadir of art was seen in the Palazzo Vecchio
As each of the greats thought little of their craft
But dallied and diddled, till the populace all laughed.
The Cascina on naked bathing soldiers was based
On the banks of the Arno it was placed.
But the scene that was rendered was so ludicrous
That his work, sadly, bordered on the ridiculous.
Leonardo's Anghiari was a shade grim
But his chances to greatness was very slim.
He used oils from Pliny the Elder's recipe
But soon these flaked , were smudgy, and drippy.
Be that as it may
To Art's great dismay
What should have been great works
Were diminished by Rivalry's quirks.
Vasari painted over these objets de art
And replaced these with his own from the start.
Now conservators do scan, to see if they can,
Which of the two, Leonardo or Michelangelo, was
The painter of the elusive Magnum Opus.
~18 Jun 2016~