Claustrophobic, saturated white walls constrict,
sucking the oxygen from every molecule of deprived blood.
Hypoxic cells circulate through an increasingly unstable body,
whilst rivulets of sweat flow from clammy palms.
Insomniac reality blurs with insidious shadows,
dancing upon the ceiling.
Naive faith keeps insanity just at bay,
but with each sunrise, hope is chipped away.
How much longer can a soul survive without respite
before it splits open—
spilling into the realms of delicious delusion?
Counting spots of dust in sunlight streams
now becomes the norm.
Two hundred yesterday—
is that two hundred and four today?
Slowly losing grip,
twisted nursery rhymes play out in a fracturing mind:
One, two, no one is going to save you.
Three, four, get ready for the relentless gore.
Five, six, they will play with your bones like sticks.
Seven, eight, for this occasion you better not be late.
Nine, ten, you are now in their sadistic den.
Praying for sleep, it never comes,
as reality dissolves
and this phantasmagorical nightmare commences.
"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.
phantasmagorical
is love's colorful view
in the kaleidoscope
spun to paint scenes anew
in rose-tinted glasses
with love shining right through
In
time
lost hopes
and wishes
morph into daydreams
as you realize hidden truths
while reality no longer fuels fantasies
and phantasmagorical soon disappears from your vocabulary forever.
Years
pass
until
suddenly
almost overnight
the innocence of youth is lost
and you are left to deal with life's insincerities
as your distinctive personality is reduced to memories of uniqueness.
Phantasmagorical
forest
and I am lost
in a fog of pink
and orange
devouring
blue screams
and wanting
white-tailed
zenomorphs
leading blackboard
hearts beating
in my brain
a sound like quiet.
A longing look back at dusty thoughts
colors my musings of childhood days.
And I miss Mom's hugs, outings, and trips,
and phantasmagorical picnics.
My imagination starts to stir;
conjuring up past visions of fun.
And I wish that I could go hog-wild,
or switch curiosity back on.
Thinking about family groupings
instantly summons up happy thoughts.
And my mind oft lovingly looks back,
to a past without guilt or worry.
Occasionally, I wish I could
go back to what I had long ago.
And that pang of nostalgia calls forth
an amalgamation of lost joys.
An aesthetic bottle garden
is a living, phantasmagorical jewel.
A treasured, ostentatious gem,
intricately designed,
artistically arranged and sustained behind a shield of glass.
Encapsulated perfection,
a splendiferous garden of paradise
juxtaposed with a sullied polluted Earth.
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.
Imagine how
phantasmagorical it'd be:
Living in harmony with Nature: wow!
Imagine what you'd see:
pristine oceans, rainforests of emerald green,
and cerulean rivers, running clear and clean.
Think of what your children haven’t seen,
and picture the Earth as paradise: here and now.
Equilibrium
phantasmagorical
reverberatis
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.
Try to wrap your mind around a gust of wind,
a rainbow, or the shape of water.
Let your thoughts swim in a pool of imagination,
and dive into the depths of the abstract;
letting it help you understand what defies definition.
You can inhale a breath of air
and feel the wind on your face.
But can you describe its shape?
The wind, although tactile, is invisible;
and it's constantly transforming itself.
You can envision a rainbow arched across the sky,
and yet, it's ethereal, without mass or weight.
It's a magical illusion, composed of water and light,
that only appears to be substantive.
You can see, smell, feel, and taste water;
even observe its transformation into clouds and ice.
But can you describe
or sculpt water based on its shape?
Our mind connects all the missing dots
that make sense of this phantasmagorical world;
letting us contemplate the shape of water.
Sunlight paints your blush with ruby highlights,
inking you in stunning cinibar tints.
And romantic thoughts glow in your aura,
inspiring both artists and troubadours.
With wafts of romantic inclinations,
your fragrant aroma summons a kiss.
And oft fills sultry souls with thoughts of bliss,
imagining a world built on a wish.
Laid in a book, you await tomorrow,
your crimson color crumbling into dust.
But happy thoughts wash all that's sad away;
as your charming disposition blossoms.
Your buds bloom into a symbol of class,
along with caviar and Cadillacs.
And fuchsia adds glamor to your array;
in a phantasmagorical display.
You accompany faith through dark shadows;
as you ward off scary, sorrowful thoughts.
And mourn with all who cry, clutching your thorns;
comforting, distraught souls without a word.
He’d a fetish feline without doubt
so did Tom, his sick mania flout
make phantasmagorical
a new categorical
and then Andrew did let the cat out.
Twas a bargain at just half the price
Nunn and Weber made Memory nice
blending words of a poet
with some music to show it
to find lightning can sometimes strike twice.
___________________________________
1/3/2021
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