wasting borrowed time
another screw up
ducking between doorways
haunted city streets
walking among ghosts
chasing the void
between neons lights
and falling stars
beer and blood
a body baptismal
a soul revival
punks need contact
Seeking life among the dead
living like the dead among the living
a ghost haunting city streets
chasing the void--
the dark places/
between the stars and neons
When nightfall dips in palest of gold
I feel a sense of indignity,
As owl's melody loses its eloquence
Through the absence of a safe abode;
Where quietude calls for avian coos
The kind which never seeks to intrude…
And its orbed eyes larger than neons, freeze
In need of natue's hued, aerial parade---
Startled, bird's forest trail is washed out
By mourning dew of poison
Denying the barren woods of nourishment
while allowing thieves to skin owl feathers,
mangled talons like so, wasted ---
Wise keeper of secrets, hushing the noise.
Life marvels at your nocturnal guardianship
yet, this world shares not your moonlit toots
lithography of hills no longer owns
your delicate interludes of silence...
Man ravages bird navel, flesh , and plumes
For trading quests, for self- interest ---
Can this earthly slaughter cease
sucking nectar soil of birds dry?
Somehow, I still hail the dwindling number
of hooting owls
Which believes that the next generations
will wander on an environ,
Soaring their wings... joyously free at last.
Neon days are preceded by thunder.
Neon days didn’t warn me about success,
neon days are built from the struggle;
Neon days do not show your sacrifice,
neon days attract flies to your light;
Neons days never simply appear,
neon days are the result of grit;
Neon days color heat lighting lime,
neon days hot pink crackles the night;
Neon days no one sees the hard road,
neon days you must fight through the fog;
Neon days attract lazy poachers,
neon days are rudely disrupted;
Neon days tend to show off hard work,
neon days posers want just a piece;
Neon days there are vultures that wait,
neon days you must tend your garden;
Neon days just the strong are standing,
neon days you must fight to keep them;
Thunder is preceded by neon days.
cannot get hair teased any higher?
Okay then, let’s spray it with color.
Neons are good, we are heading toward the skate barn.
You look punky, woman, in the zone
I am in love with my own art
cartoons painted in neons
that show up under black lights
also in love with music
classical, folk, jazz, seventies,
sixties, forties, gospel.
I am living in my dream house.
A farm house in the country.
Where my dogs and cat can roam.
We have fox, deer, opossum, and raccoons.
Not inside, of course, but they make themselves known.
Surrounded by walnuts, oaks, elms, and apple trees.
My yard is alive with lilacs, crepe myrtles, and hydrangea in summer.
My grandchildren live close enough to visit, and they do.
I have an art studio in the garage, so I have privacy.
I love the solitude, this is my sanctuary.
It is like a lodge; every room is comfortable.
We have eliminated everything we did not love.
Each features my paintings in neons.
My bedroom has a black light, so we glow in the dark.
The best part of my house is my husband.
He said he was going to marry me when he was six. And he did.
There is a hilarity in this canvas
Not often found in Van Gogh's art
And recognizable faces
Also unprecedented
They might be sneaking contraband liquor
Outside away from the prying eyes of the women
For it is three men, and a boy who is taking a taste
It gives me a new feeling about Van Gogh
An artist myself, I enjoy his art, for it is cartoonish like mine
I use neons, which he did not have access to back in his time
I am confident if he had access to neons, he would have used them
Can't you see his Irises and his reflections on the water
in florescent? I sure can!
This painting makes him more real to me than he has ever been
which is why it is my favorite of his.
crows conjuring curious witches
cauldrons containing concoctions I concur with
elegance in ebony, elusive and alluring
sensuous in satin, sassy and scintillating
chosen for every painting I do
to offset the hot pinks and neons
to outline and exude and uplift
refined, respectable and reassuring
I am painting trees with facial features
They are orange, pink, green, black….
Some with stripes
Some with slashes
Some plain
I lie
Plain does not fit into my schemata
I want to paint a azure tree
But if I paint a blue one it would clash with the sky.
All of my trees so far have sky backgrounds
And multi-colored leaves
in silvers, reds, oranges, blues, purples.
I love adding color on top of color - mostly neons.
I dare not paint a face tree in blue though
For one silly reason.
How would that show up against a blue sky?
A mermaid in a glass I am painting shows me her smile.
She encourages me.
I already tried a pink sky once, I tell her.
And a lavender one.
Both of those paintings were disappointments
Every time I look at them I consider doing them over.
She laughs at my predicament.
I begin adding blue on top of blue to her canvas
Experimenting with her
Since she is the one
Giving me the idea.
I am a cartoonist, a painter, a clandescent poet.
I paint in neons – pinks, greens, yellows and blues.
The background is sometimes done up in purple before I know it.
I start with the skin color, making it a variety of hues.
Beige might work for others, but I use coppers, silvers and pink.
I throw in some oranges every time I do think.
For I am an artist, a painter, a poet.
Colors are everything, don’t you know it?
I will die eagerly,
ready to go,
surrounded by neons
faeries, elves, imps
I will die happily,
in my own way
lying next to my garden
surrounded by orbs
I will die gracefully,
gladly and fully ready
adoring the heavenly
ancestors who come fetch me.
I will die with a smile
remembering my phenomenal
fantastic make believe world
my family, and my friends.
I never work in darkness friend
Evil hunts in shadows
Give me a sunny meadow
dancing jolly, kissing flowers
now I stand quivering gossamer wings
narcissistic greed mongers, corrupted
build towers where neons flash
sold their putrid souls for cash
the prophet said perish thee
for you can’t eat money
words of change died in silence
Trees don’t tremble, flowers don’t cry
I know my time is near
Last night I had a dream
the last bee dead
I’m mounted on display
10,000 drones replaced me
doing what I gave for free
there is no hope in silence
Wastrels write on tenement walls
their words failed to convey
blind and deaf to my dismay
communications more than words
deathly silence screams the answer
Written 5/8/2019
NA the Day Away - Sponsor Lu Loo
Placed 3rd with thanks
My home is neon-friend to the idiocy degree.
I am sure when people barge in, they think me mad.
Which suits me fine
For there will be less barging.
They need to stay on their side of the river.
If I need them, I will pick up the phone and call.
If they need me, they had better think hard about it.
For my phone is off unless I want to make a call, which is seldom.
Many homes are feuillemort. Dull orange, dull brown, duller yellow.
This is not my home.
My home lights up like New Year's Eve's Madison Square Garden.
My home is neon-friendly to the idiocy degree.
I could not live here if it were any other way.
I could not live anywhere if I could not take my neons with me.
I certainly could not live in an old folk's home.
I consider them social clubs for the non-private ones.
I went to my art studio to view my latest paintings,
because frankly, I had completely forgotten what I was
working on, or whether I was working on anything.
I recognized none of the paintings on first glance,
then one of the skies rang a bell. I remember adding too
much glitter and being annoyed with myself. They are all
my style, and I have used my favorite colors, so I guess they
are my paintings.
My signature neons grin at me from three or four unfinished
canvases. Pinks, blues, yellows, greens, reds, and lots of oranges.
I love orange! It is maybe my favorite color this year. My enthusiasm
for these canvases has waned, maybe totally died even. She expired
so quickly, I do not care about finishing them.
Like my poetry, I often do not recognize facets of my personality
as she flings herself onto a page, into a word processor, or against
a rough linen canvas. These ideas clearly live within, but so deep,
I do not bother to keep them in my conscious mind or cherish
them after I am finished with them.
I am so irreverent to my stuff, it should be embarrassing.
But it is not.
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