Long Phantasmagorical Poems
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"He won’t paint", cried out the Father
suspecting a flame of genius
in the toddler’s eyes.
The painterly parent bought paper, acrylics,
oils, brushes, chalks, and crayons,
not even a finger painting emerged.
The child steadfastly refused to paint.
The father pleaded:
“For the glory of God why not paint!”
His offspring only turned away
to suck a thumb.
Months past…years.
The child grew to be a sullen teenager.
He began to write poetry – and such woeful,
doleful poetry!
Exclamation marks rose up in heaven
as thick as bamboo forests.
His father read them, his face grew ashen
with a sickly alarm.
The poems spoke of phantasmagorical visions,
hordes of screaming demons, dismembered
herds of hapless humans.
Abysmal were the visions the boy unleashed
from his newly erupted consciousness.
Presentiments flew up from the pages
as horrid as the blood-red dragons of Hades.
Upon reading his son’s latest works
the father exclaimed:
“For God’s sake, NEVER paint!”
He took the young man for long walks in the country,
forced him to join a local soccer team,
suggested a military career,
alas
the boy began to paint.
I have fallen in love with a winged dragon alebrijes,
Have to buy it of course, is it signed?
What artisian created this piece of bright gorgeousness?
I look for a signature.
This phantasmagorical creature has none.
No matter.
She is from Oaxaca, the ultimate home of the alebrijes.
Pedro Linares had a fever in the 1940’s.
His fever dreams turned into fantastical creatures.
Made first of papier-mache, painted in Zapotec patterns
Circles, dots and stripes.
Did he know he was starting something big
when he made up the word alebrijes?
Colorful folk art made more famous by
artisians like Frida Kahlo, Diego Rivera and Arturo Cabellero
Alebrijes are hybrid creatures carved in wood, painted in
bright colors.
Representing animal totems or familiars,
they are part of the pop culture of Day-of-the-dead parades.
Horns representing earth, wings representing air,
fins representing water and dragons representing fire.
It makes sense I am completely drawn to the winged dragon.
Replacing wishes with fantasy dreams,
you ride life's wake on a surfboard of hopes.
Subjected to laughter and silent screams,
you're entangled in emotional ropes
and lose your footing on slippery slopes.
Exploring secret urges within you,
floating feelings seem to last forever.
Fabricating colors of every hue
it's an extraordinary endeavor,
the last time you felt like this; was never!
Fairytales, rabbit holes, and magic pills,
a wonderland of possibilities.
Phantasmagorical worlds of thrills
sidestep the horror and hostilities,
freeing you of responsibilities.
You're chasing a feeling that isn't real,
navigating through a river of tears.
For dope doesn't guarantee how you'll feel
after all the partying, lies, and fears,
and you cringe inside, hoping your head clears.
(English Quintain)
4/3/2018
A manifestation of God's word,
The Big Bang created the universe:
a phantasmagorical coalescence of sparks.
Billions of galaxies swirl in the fabric of time and space
like filigree clusters, set with pulsars and quasars,
and massive black holes generating cosmic rays.
Stewards of both life and death, stars define infinity
as dark matter anchors gravity's web of threads,
blurring boundaries of science and creation;
life floats in an unfathomable sea of ebony.
Yet we are but stardust caught in the gears of the infinite,
kneaded from ancient dust and the ash of dead novas,
charting the infinite geometry of the night sky
while our brief lives contemplate the concept of forever.
housed within mine impenetrable hermetically
sealed invisible bubble
draped with blackened Hades
hued habiliment therein dwelt
sinister saboteur mastermind marauder of the Hubble
who demanded sacrifice to traverse
river styx with unadulterated gelt
which known phantasmagorical
donning double dutchmen's britches
whose piercing fiery ocular presence unseen but felt
thine true self amidst the aftermath
from Armageddon rubble
astride charred global ruins
entire civilization did melt
entire planet prognosticated
by Maya sages with 11th hour stubble
birthed this Darth Vader nemesis
with evil upon earth he did pelt
annihilating mankind, the derelict species
that fueled trouble
hence evil twin appointed apocalyptic
malevolence spelt
with mass crematorium desecration
left horrific blistering welt!
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
countdown to *****sapiens extinction
predicted millenniums in past
to occur December 21 two thousand
and twelve after common era
whereby catastrophic spark detonating
inferno incinerating blast
eradicating extant flora and fauna
bereft sans hegira
with no means to interrupt the dusk key die
since dawn of civilization cast.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
impossible to escape ominous predetermined
fate of human rat race
nor turn back hands of time with origin
of species on clock face
thus ticking closer to hour of doomsday
without faith to brace
allowing, enabling and providing Gaia
to redeem terrestrial space
vestiges of teeming billions soon
erased criminal minds without a trace
forcefully relinquishing simians
planetary stranglehold amazing grace
proffering tabula rasa for another
dominant species to claim the place.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
sirens promulgate emergency toward
impending inescapable cataclysm
yet no place to run or hide lest one boards
a rocket light-years away
which makes suspense thrillers
birthed by John Grisham
enviable plot to keep total Earths’
destruction at bay.
Form:
Behold, oh my beloved!
Is there a hidden care
you would like to share,
with your not so gentle gaze?
Repudiating caducity,
your eyes portray
sustained excitement ~
still and restrained
whilst behind you
an arabesque of phantasmagorical
make-believe.
Behold, oh my beloved
the vortex of colours
surrounding you
entwine a paradigm
of that starry night~
and as i look into its cosmic glow
I fall in love with you.
22 May 2022
A Briand Strand Premiere Choice Poetry Contest
6th Place
Notes:
Like Rembrandt and Goya, Vincent van Gogh often used himself as a model; he produced over forty-three self-portraits, paintings or drawings in ten years. Like the old masters, he observed himself critically in a mirror. Painting oneself is not an innocuous act: it is a questioning which often leads to an identity crisis.
( Credits: Google Arts and Culture)
Earth's a planet of beauty and wonder,
hosting unique creatures, both big and small.
But butterflies are hailed among Nature's
masterpieces, as living works of art.
Caterpillars morph into butterflies
through the rebirth of metamorphosis.
And winged, phantasmagorical creatures,
of all colors of the rainbow, take flight.
Delicate silver and gold filigree
intricately gilds iridescent wings.
And purples, blues, greens, and countless colors,
create abstract art caught in the sunlight.
Mother Nature's a natural artist,
who takes her art to another level.
And, as a testament to her talent,
butterflies are uniquely breathtaking.
A thunderstorm was approaching in the wee hours
The sad phantasmagorical spirit loomed
Beside the emaciated gentleman bed
Was his dead mistress unmistakable contours
The gloomy chamber was the forbidden love nest
For the treacherous and clandestine wencounters
Of the unmentionable vices chained lovers
Until the mistress passed away for final rest
One day when lovers passion was at the highest
The gentleman strangled the lady and buried
The cadaver until one day was unburied
The lady was finally buried for final rest
The nightmares chased the gentlemen during the night
Insomnia was affecting his sleepy hours
Confession of the vile crime ended the rumours
Prisoner of mind and body in the skylight
For Put Your Best Poe Forward
Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Tommy Boy
Honorable Mention
Nayda Ivette
11-23-15
I find myself sitting with a tree top view,
Watching as the world slowly passes me by,
This sacred place has been occupied by few,
As the sounds of nature echo in the crystal sky.
Cleansed in clear blue water my soul set free,
Surrounded by phantasmagorical colourful fish,
I wish the world could sit with me and see,
But futile my quest it shall remain a wish.
As the crimson sun searches for horizons low,
And my eyes begin to wander heaven bound,
In the knowledge that soon the first star will show,
Through nature's sounds, my heart has been found.
Could this be simply a euphoric daydream?
Some kind of weird psychosis for all I know,
Just then I am touched by the first moonbeam,
And suddenly my eyes are captured in its glow.
9~May~2017
For Mountaintop Lake - Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Brenda Chiri.
The Infant won’t paint, cried out the Father;
he sensing an otherworldly genius
in the toddler’s eyes.
The painterly parent bought paper, acrylics,
oils, brushes, chalks, and crayons…
not even a finger painting emerged.
The child steadfastly refused to paint.
The father exclaimed:
“For the glory of God why not paint!”
His offspring turned away to suck his thumb.
Days past…years.
The child grew to be a sullen teenager.
He began to write poetry – and such woeful,
doleful poetry!
Exclamation marks rose up in heaven
as thick as bamboo forests.
His father read them, and his face grew ashen
with a sickly alarm.
The poems spoke of phantasmagorical visions,
hordes of screaming demons dismembered
herds of hapless humans.
Abysmal were the visions unleashed
from the boy’s erupting consciousness.
Presentiments flew up from the pages
as horrid as the blood-red dragons of Hades.
After reading his son’s latest works
the father exclaimed:
“For God’s sake, NEVER paint!”
He took the young man for long walks in the country,
forced him to join a local soccer team,
suggested a military career,
alas
the boy began to paint.