Your tears flow like a river,
You always appear in my deepest slumber.
I only loved you once,
But I lost you at every chance.
We became the closest of friends,
But we broke apart before the story ends.
It hurt me most and turned my heart blue,
These hidden feelings only I and you knew.
You ignited my heart but turned me green,
When I saw the other girl you had chosen to be seen.
Mourn my mind with grief and pain when you chose her,
I guess there is no way to be together.
I planted anger where love once grew with regret,
Desperately wanting my heart to finally forget.
I just want to say what I held from the start —
I love you my Vincent, with all of my heart.
Please remember our friendship if nothing else,
For loving you was the truest thing I ever felt.
The sky staggers
in s
p
i
r
a
l
s of sleepless blue,
a celestial storm stitched from sapphire and sorrow,
where stars swell, simmering seeds of unstable light
trembling like thoughts too vast to be contained.
Above the village, night kneels in restless reverence.
Roofs rest in rigid resignation,
windows dim as quiet witnesses to cosmic unrest,
while the steeple stretches upward like a hesitant prayer
that never quite reaches its answer.
A cypress rises, black, brooding, blade-like
a funereal flame fixed in the soil of silence,
cutting through the composition like grief given form,
binding earth to the fevered heavens above.
The wind is unseen yet insinuated,
a wandering whisper weaving through the whorled sky,
stirring stars into spinning, shimmering syntax,
as though the night itself has lost grammatical control.
Nothing here is still.
Everything leans light lurches, darkness deepens, distance dissolves.
The world holds together on tension alone,
as though the painter captured not a landscape,
but the moment reality began to tremble.
Long ago in a fine art show,
I saw, in a wheat field, an old black crow.
I asked, "Where did Vincent van Gogh?"
The bird blinked and said, "He was Hell bent.
Some say he was Heaven sent.
Who knows where Vincent van Went?"
in need of breeze
beyond the noise,
seconds slither
through veined currents,
smothering the light within,
as silence forgets
the syllables of stillness
turning the sky
into a sea of electric blue ~
waves carrying
the weight of quiet grief,
restless ripples
pushing...pulling...
toward the swirls
of love
etched beneath
the midnight sun…
and if tomorrow I f a d e
intrinsic ink phase,
remember me as the dusk
that defied
treacherous tremors of dark ~
I gathered sparks
from spiraling stars
as constellations
shattered and crashed
against shivering skin
within this sleepless home,
carving a sapphire silhouette
of solitude ~
a poet drowning
in a demented dream
in the heart of
an unnamed village,
no soul of dawn longed to see,
unaware of heaven
hidden beneath
brush-bruised strokes,
where only a
feeler’s eyes
could trace the
fine feathers
f l o a t i n g through
the finesse
of a forlorn life…
“His cheese slid off his crackers”
He’s hopelessly absolutely wackers
Like Vincent Van Gogh
His paintings were sold
Sanity nor vanity not a factor
As tormented as Vincent Van Gogh was…
there was also a lot of wisdom there…
He said: if you truly love nature…
you will find beauty everywhere..
And following his logic…in this season of Noel…
If we truly love Christmas and the holidays
We should be able to find love everywhere
and everyday…as well.
The bravery of the brush,
the broadness of the stroke,
yet the fearlessness of the line,
keeps it here through time.
Colors, textures, contrasting strokes
bring to life my imagination, my senses,
my consciousness, my breath itself.
A fusion into a magical constellation,
a universal heartbeat of infinite rhythm,
could this possibly come from
the madness of mental health.
An everlasting impression on canvas
which expels so many currents,
brings only pure joy to my soul.
Vincent, through your torment
you have unlocked my fragmented being
so to become whole.
I want to thank you for your sacrifice,
bringing joy to me and so many others as well.
The calm you have brought me from your storm
a gift that forever will help soothe my spell.
Chases me down a paint-stained alley.
My feet are swollen—maybe someday they’ll rot
Exhausted from the brush stroke agony
I seize when the light forces itself upon me
When will I decide to turn myself into dust
Deranged is what I seem to be
They locked me in a rage-filled scene
Hearing petrified, hate-charged screams.
Peering through the curtains as I wake from restless sleep
Staring at a starry night
It sings me a melodic, stunning melody
Maybe the air that flows through my lungs
Perhaps the heart that pumps my blood
Is not what I truly need
Maybe a pistol will give me ultimate peace
Perhaps a bullet will allow me to foresee
As I lay near my brother
I don't sob, I don't plead
The life I lived wasn't for me
“The sadness will last forever”
It won't be cured by remedies
So I must cut short my legacy
The rope that strangled me with miseries
My death is not a tragedy
Street lights — street lights don't illuminate for a lone walker
The moon dims with shame
The trees stand terrified while the cat tries to escape.
Here meet the protagonist — the lone you shall say
His steps will get iconic with his feet in decay.
He covers his ears as one bleeds a river
How many steps are left, how much time is near?
The coat's not warm, it's a bloody cold night.
My buddy had an artistic dream,
With eyes that shine as pure they scream
His starry night might steal the stars
But my buddy's heart in thousand scars
Look at the irises and the flowers so pretty
Or the cafe you stop at
Look at the sky, the sky full of stars
Look at the Infinity, the heavenly wars
To find beauty in something so ordinary in life
To find colors, to forget grief when bliss arrives.
The heart that hurt yet sought to weave
When the world's cruel, it taught to believe
My buddy passed under countless stars
The casket closed, telling the words,
"May the void end and joy prevail
As the dreamer pass his vision and tale"
Vincent Damon Furnier
his musical acts are funny
when asked why he is so strange
he could only say Alice is my first name
Two figures in a meadow of years
crowns with lilacs are their memories
moments of beauty but also tears
Now, but ghosts, they amble silently
Often they walked here in younger days
in life, they journeyed, his hand with hers
Searching for the sun in a grey malaise
a summer rain couldn't wash their tears
They like to stroll here 'neath pastel skies
among leaves dappled with days they knew
memories' sadness still finds their eyes
and blossoms reflect each goodbye hue
Ghosts of long ago often leave hints
that are best seen under lapis skies,
in shadows or midst lavender scents
Perhaps this truth Vincent realized
When Vincent stumbled home that night through a drizzle of rain ~
what was going on inside that teeming, torturous brain?
Did he blaspheme heaven with every profanity and curse?
Or did he gaze in awe at the stars of his exploding universe,
and try to make of their blue and yellow light a poultice for his pain?
Today I’m thankful for the stars and the words of Vincent Van Gogh
(I hold these in high esteem)
For my part I know nothing of any certainty
but the sight of stars makes me dream.
His life came to a ruinous end
Plummeted into insanity
The red-bearded painter
With his self-hatred, despair and desperation for understanding
He drank yellow paint thinking it would make him happy
Locked up in a mental asylum that would shatter any person’s self-belief
Deceived Vincent cut his earlobe in an unforeseen calamity
But he channelled the awful torment into beauty
Immaculate and sublime
To find ecstasy in the ordinary
And in transforming the banal into a magical masterpiece
The Starry Night, Sunflowers, Self-Portrait, The Potato Eaters, Wheatfield with Crows, Irises, The Bedroom in Arles
Each a genius’s masterstroke into Eternity
A jumble of love, sorrow and rage
Painting the canvas in bold strokes as his heart and mind burst into flames
The King of colour, a whisper into the future unheard in his times
He died in a rut with voices all over his mind.
So, he picked up the gun
And the bullet went straight into his golden heart
Wonder how many colours lost their lives on that day?
Can a song be so sad it becomes beautiful?
A record listened to with such incessance
Its needle scratches and wobbles
Becomes desperate new notes for the melody?
The song unrecognizable to the listener
Without its own personalized warp
From a thousand roundabout journeys?
Try
Hurrah For The Riff Raff’s Good Time Blues (An Outlaw’s Lament)
Or their Ogallala
Try on Steve Earle’s Last Words
Or St. Vincent’s Smoking Section
All these songs make me turn my head
And cry
When I’m around others
Otherwise if I’m all alone
I stare ahead in stoned silence
No Expectations is another
Mick and Keith say that day in the studio
Was the last time
They ever saw blurry-eyed original Brian Jones
Alive
Bent over his guitar with his steel finger slide
Finding and gliding his long long regrets
Up and down his bent strings
As the boy watched his peace of mind packed up
For the last time
Adding his own final warped words
From a piece of steel to carved hollow wood
His swan song for the Stones
That Keith and Mick thought they wrote
Made his own
Immortal
And beautiful.
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