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.
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
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?
Dew drops grace green grasses
Soothing like my pearly power shower
I choose the right outfit for an orange day
Under the fruit bowl by Vincent Van Gogh
Breakfast bar stool welcomes hungry hips
Honey dew melon kisses lips
Pray meditate talk to God and myself
Water plants feed perky pets sweep steps
Thunderous thud at the French door
Blue genes deliver the paper boy
Who always smells like molasses
Busy red rush for beige boisterous bus
Cool car pool to trendy train that passes
Helium houses that empty again of masses
Spied by sharp eyed animals of prey
Early bird flight climb sky
By Water Lily Lake
Sun is a ball of fire rolling uphill
A wise bald eagle relaxes on top of the world
His seat red, white, blue flag’s pole by the mill
Sun rays in his face
Tattoo him as silhouette Smokey gray
Misunderstood genius losing his eyesight, child's finger painting.
an asylum's garden~irises full of life without tragedy
all is a whirl a swirl a curl - a wondrous whorl world entwined sublime
~ iris blue ~ initially purple ~ protanopia confuse ~
from beyond his
vibrant palette
that bore all his
lifelong scars
is what I see
beneath his sky
and myriad
of stars
a scene of shades
and silhouettes
formed by the
yellow light
that hints at
The Last Supper
at that café
in the night?
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