To Death
There are 72-deaths, and God said, ?Pick one,? and so he did, ?To Death,? was its name: its eyes were sleepy, droopy. He then wondered what the other 71-deaths were like?
Many were among the dark hills, stone-forests below?! Waters full of flames, undrinkable!
Stagnant, he slowly glided down its gap, to its warm end, from its glaciers of cold sweat, from flesh, and found death to be a friend (for a while anyways); no dread, just calm, sweet dancing in the dark?here all the longing desires became beautifully-mad, with pounding.
Writing poetry is not so difficult, but writing really good poetry is something, which takes talent and deep thought. Some poets can rattle off poems in streams of thought, just give them a cup of coffee and a good view of the meadow, while others take weeks to finish the next line. What makes one poem better than the next?
Neon Blue is an 18×24 oil on canvas and part of the Walk On The Wild Side Series.
Everything was inspired by the poem, Neon Blue, and then the song I wrote below.
Where legends now flow and flow And scattered pieces of the hero?s pyre,
sing: the stones of Kuelap, Chan Chan
Cuzco?the Amazon ring and ring, as Barbs on windpipes blow their echoes?!
Thus, cords of music sweep into the jungles
And the Andes; here, ?here dwells the city
Of the Andean sea?stone fortress, built
By the gods with stones blood and clay, ?Machu Picchu! Here are the visions ?Of ecstasies; ?sharper than a condor?s
Wings These legends flow and flow And sing! ? and flow and sing, and flow
and sing?infinity! ?The Legends of Peru!?
57) Out of the Dust
Part I
Out of cosmic friction and its rift,
Out of havoc and mass,
Man was born
To a primitive class,
On a planet yet unknown.
Part II
Across the galley, winged demons flew
Ape-like men appeared,
And strange monsters:
All creeping at man?s nature.
58) The Black Hand
His hand a closing veil from hell
Looming to my braw,
To cover it like a canopy.
Behind him the world was upside down
And at his feet stood ancient crumbling hate.
He stood still within this evening bleak,
With weathered limbs and somber sounds
And a waxed face I could barely see;
Then, in silence, his hand went upon my face.
The Goat and the Rope
where there were devils I saw none.
nothing. the air is hot. milky substance.
I am and we are looking at this deep.
souls lost. we are looking at this terrain.
the moon is dead. over my head. like
a shadowy curtain. hanging. most of
the kings in westminister abbey are
here. all the rest of us are on the hill.
no ice-cream down here. we are the
discarded. the seduced. most of us slept
through our earthly lives. they?re still
sleeping through the whole thing. like
a fat cat rolling over for mama. pass out
the beer. slide one under the door. Use
the bible for wrapping paper. once you?re
dead, you?re dead. woooo. here comes
the torture. give me chloroform. quick.
I am dead. but something tells me I?ll still
feel it. there are no carcasses down here.
only the feathered weird. they move their
wings like crippled wasps. they sweat
like a bull snorts. they seem satisfied.
they?ve been in the dark way too long.
In America, poets are held in such low esteem that even the most Honored Representative from Nigeria won?t bother scamming us. Society says to us what Dermot Mulroney says to Julia Roberts in ?My Best Friend?s Wedding,? that we are ?The pus that infects the mucus that cruds up the fungus that feeds on the pond scum.?
Even being cheated by Mr. Honorable Minister, however, is preferable to the poetry scams that have proliferated. Wind Publications? Literary Scam guide has this to say:
Here is some witty poetry (not sure if that is the proper word: witty, but it will do): one poem on the Aztec year 2012, a year that has been in the public’s eye quite a lot; one on cloning, and the biblical end time events–which, if I may add seems ripe for the monster events that are said to take place; and two poems dealing with some tradtions of Peru; one imparticular, on vacationing, where not to go; all the makings for some thought.
Aztec Baby
On December 25, 2012 AD
The Devil had an idea?
He?d clone himself
In the form of a baby;
Called the Antichrist.
[The Cyclopean Temples of Malta 5200 BC
1.
The Temples
This is the primitive cyclopean Neolithic period?
Dotted with statues and temples of stone; Indistinct at twilight
Constructed by giants of old, with
Inner gigantic-walls
Bold they stand, on the sands of Malta?by the Mediterranean
2.
Mother Earth Goddess
She speaks, Mother Earth, Goddess Of Fertility, to all life
From the branches of the tree of life, Her offshoots spring
The farmer, the fisherman, the village, Even the spirits of the dead
They are all here, in the sands and stones,
Writing poetry is an art, a way of expression, finding meaning in few words. A melody of passion flowing out onto the pages, words that flow into each other and yet express the inner most thoughts and feelings of those who read the words. Writing poetry is a gift, a wonderful gift, being able to illuminate words so that they form a picture, express a feeling and share a thought in so few words. Unlike telling a story or writing a novel that explains every intricate detail a poem leaves you to draw your own conclusion. Writing poetry can be a healing process, putting down on paper all the emotions locked up inside ones head, a way of remembering and a way of re-living. Poetry has many forms from free verse to sonnet but all poems tell a story, a story of words, words wrapped around each other in such away that they flow together, locked in meaning. The poem below is titled ?Playing? and every time I read this poem I cannot help but smile, as too will any mother reading this poem. See if you smile.