I have two
Well, I have one
He cares for me. He is there.
Occasionally, he annoys the
out of me
and he admits that
he cannot understand me
and that that frightens him more than anything.
I want to tell him that my ever present sadness
and the fear which, at times, threatens to vibrate my bones to jelly
till it drips out and down my fingertips
sticky and hot and red red red
I want to tell him that it is not all his fault
But my other father.
I never knew him
but mom says I have his wit
and his artistic flare
she only said that once
and we both cried
tried to email him
round about a year ago
It is your fault, in part
not yours alone
but I cannot help but to resent you
nothing but a coward
left me when I was not even out and in the light
never once did my blue eyes see you
Did you know?
They look like yours.
I have two
Well, I have one
These eyes are fixed in prolonged stare
Mesmerized by natures artistic flair
Lavish greens trimmed in floral hues
To hail a new
To watch such skilled precision
Swings with adept follow through
Is an honor fueled by the passion
Of a golfers devotion true.
I also share this passion
And hold this sport in high respect
Sadly, in hours this tourney will be over
With dreams achieved and others wrecked.
There's the eight of us,
So very different
But yet so much the same.
Each of us holds our special traits.
Our special talents
Converged as an octet.
Some linguistic and
We love to laugh,
We love to tease,
We love to make a fool of ourselves.
We know there's one who's always there,
Spraying water everywhere,
But never lets people touch her hair.
And then there's one,
Who's buff and tough,
Her voice can change like a chameleon's skin.
Next we have this pretty babe,
Her furry stuff are fun to touch,
She's the gentlest, loveliest llama I know.
Not to forget,
The one's that's brainy,
Such a smarty that she can't type properly.
There's also one that I believe
She's really a mermaid in disguise,
Her actions way too ridiculous.
Of course we have this crazy kid,
Too many fandoms and too little sleep.
I still wonder why she needs her hood all the time.
And here there's another girl,
With real beautiful eyes,
A perfect actress for sketch comedies.
Last but not least,
There's just me,
I can't find a word for my personality.
I don't know how far we'll go,
If we'll still stay as close as we are right now.
As time cruelly marches on,
The day we'll part ways draws so near.
This part of me knows
That this magical bond
That we call friendship,
Will live on forever and ever.
Never did I feel so sure,
So confident about friendship.
But you guys are so special,
I really hope you know.
No matter what happens,
I see myself with you all forever,
And you all with me.
I believe in this friendship.
This magical bond,
That holds the eight of us,
She'll sleep tight in a parallel universe tonight
my deeply serious rainbow girl astral projects
communes with Shiva and champions chakras
she has the recipe for what passes as illumined
her ignorance of current events is appalling
but that chosen ignorance is staid and undisturbed
I grumble and complain, I use the news like a junkie
I put the pieces together, pattern the puzzle-
I see the BIG picture…I cut my life short
possessing a keen memory is like the proverbial millstone
the information is the lake
rainbow girl is contemptuous of my self inflicted plight
we realize its a matter of time before disparate likes divide
I am fire and she is water, I the destroyer, she the preserver
the passion can only be complimentary for so long
Like the lady bard said:
You read those books where luxury
Comes as a guest to take a slave
Books where artists in noble poverty
Go like virgins to the grave (Joni)
She'll tolerate my confabulated artistry a spell
I can see she's a caterwauling banshee of protestation in the waiting
Her mellifluous quietude, equanimity and perfect poise can only last so long
Before my brash stripped down vituperative diatribe is is as acid in the eyes
Then be off to resume her prior harmonic convergence of heart stuff
while me and my artistic *bent cut my life short
*http://jonimitchell.com/music/song.cfm?id=38 The Boho Dance
His mother shrugged, "Suit yourself."
Glancing at the trophies littering the shelf,
"Trade all of this in, claim that success is fodder,
and allow your work to be trodden upon, just like that of your father."
Her son grimaced, "This is what I want."
Standing up for his beliefs, while acting nonchalant
"Dismiss and goodbye kiss me or support me with your hugs
But father's legacy will live on, I must design artistic rugs"
artistic strokes of a brush, mountians blue, a rivers rush,wind blown trees and daffadills, you paint the sky to meet the hill's,mixing colors gray and white, paint a cloud, reflect the light, a motionless child lost in time, artistic strokes all in your mind, reflect the earth and steal it's plunder, a rain soaked night filled with thunder. a blustery wind blows threw the trees, a ship afar on rolling seas, you see the light and paint the sun,your brilliant work has just begun, you stroke the canvas with love and pride, now we know whats deep inside.
Icy wind blew through the open window, rustling the cyan curtains dangling from what was once a shimmering chrome curtain rod. Now it hung by the tips of rusting screws, waiting for a small rodent or mild tremor to disturb it's awkward resting place. Water stains riddle the sheet rock, giving a brown and white mixture of color barely visible in the moonlight now flooding the unnaturally silent room. This box of despair was once home to a young boy. Timothy was his name. Timothy had blond hair matching gorgeous blue eyes. He was a little taller for a 17 year old and was on the slimmer side. You might say Timothy could of been an excellent basketball player, but his lack of interest in sports kept him from discovering one of his many talents. Yet, he had already discovered many talents and gifts most only dream of. Timothy had always been an imaginative boy. As a child he would come home with more drawings and stories to tell than actual school work. This would cause a bit of trouble in the future. His grades were not the best but everyone knew he was brilliant. Timmy found more interest in reading and dreaming up characters for his future novel he hoped to someday write. As a young man, he learned more about being open with his artistic abilities. One of the few friends of Timmy's was a girl named Lisa Leome. Friends since the day she moved into the house three doors down on mulberry road, they would spend every night playing in the woods behind Timmy's home during their younger years. Lisa was around 5'2" at the time he turned 17. She was only a few months older than him. Her hair had always been a dark earthly brown. It reminded Timmy of the tree's shadows around the time of night his mother would call him inside for dinner during his childhood. Lisa was beautiful, turning into a true woman with goals and dreams she hoped to someday accomplish. A month before senior year started, Lisa discovered his sketch book inside a box shoved to the back of his closet. Upon confronting him about his amazing artistic abilities, Timothy enrolled into an advanced art class offered only to students who could pass a drawing test. He passed with a perfect score. Timmy's parents were very proud to have such a talented boy and pushed him to be more social and open.
The first day of his final year in high school arrived. Timothy was dressed and groomed before 5am. Every weekday morning he would leave the still sleeping house and walk to Lisa's house. He would wait on her porch until 5:30. At the exact time not a second to late or to soon the screen door would creek open slowly as if to hide the fact someone was exiting the house. Out of the dark entryway, a sky blue converse laced with sparkling black shoe strings stepped forth followed by a stunning girl wearing gray, worn out skinny jeans, and a fading black and blue shirt with "The Strokes" printed across the breast in barely visible maroon ink. The next thing Timothy noticed was the dark bloody red lipstick painted onto her lips with perfect precision. "Lisa only ever wore lipstick and eyeliner", he thought. Finally, noticing the girl placing a black pencil into her weathered, green messenger bag.
The memory of her stepping out of that doorway played in his mind all day. During home room, all he could think about were the adorable shoes she had on. During study hall, the jeans and strokes shirt she wore. How they were once his. He always gave her his old clothes. Ones that were too small. Then during lunch, as he sat next to her, the lipstick drawn onto her lips like Picasso was resurrected only to put on Lisa Leome's makeup every morning. Her eyeliner made him think of the nights they had snuck out during the summer to attend parties and raves. When she would get so drunk she couldn't help but cry over that last boy that broke her precious heart. Smearing away the running eyeliner, telling her he will never leave her side.
As they walked home, he watched her bag bounce with each step. It was the only part of her world he was off limits to. She had that bag everywhere they went. She would always have something different in it. One day a sketch pad. The next, a bag of bubblegum. Yet the most memorable item she pulled from there was the little blotter papers. A drop of LSD on all three. They were the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. Well, after the trip they would become the second. Printed on the paper were little hearts, breaking down the middle.
It was amazing. All of the world answered him in a few hours. He fell in love with Lisa. He found out he wanted to be an artist, and where he wanted to go to college. Then the woods invited him in. The trees bending into a path. He followed her now straying voice into the dark forest. Stumbling over stones and sticks, he realized he was lost. This is when it all went black. He couldn't remember what had happened after that. He only knew something was different about himself.
As the two teenagers arrived on their street, Lisa looked over to Timothy and said, " What would you do if I said I love you?". Timothy looked puzzled. He simply replied, " I love you more." Lisa giggled. Now realizing it was a question not a statement, Timmy started turning red. Lisa too began to blush.
A few weeks later, Timothy was found in his room hanging from the ceiling fan. He had committed suicide. In the note he only wrote, " the voices told me to. They said they were Lisa and we would be happy together in the dark forest if I do." Timothy's parents and sister moved out and left the house abandoned. Every day Lisa leaves her house at exactly 5:30, crawls through the window of Timmy's room, sits on his bed and sketches. Now, with no one to wipe away her running eyeliner, Lisa sits alone and weeps for Timmy. To this day she has never forgotten to visit that room a single morning. When she blushed that day. She was embarrassed, not because it was awkward but because she loved him back. She was just to scared to say it.
Caves of Altamira
on the northern coast of Spain
paleolithic drawings can be found
the old stone age of cavemen
in a cave high above the ground
in Mount Vispieres high above the plain
the name Altamira given for high views
that prehistoric man could paint
was such confusing news
it was assumed they were not bright
they had no artistic skills
then came that discovery
high up in those hills
bison horse deer and boar
painted plainly on the wall
18 thousand years ago
painted oils copied in the museum hall
even the Dan wrote a tune
to praise these artists skills
they were stars before Hollywood
high on those Spanish hills
My death was at an odd time in my life. I never
got to fully experience what it was like to be an adult.
My life was filled with waiting, waiting to be
finally old enough to do the things I wanted to
do. I waited to go out with my friends after dark like
you see in the movies. In them you always see teenagers going
on road trips and I waited thinking to myself 'that
will be the day I have fun.' But even when I did get
older, I never did those things.
I filled my life with fantasy- reading books that projected
the world that I wanted to experience. I sought out magic
in people and the things I did. My magic was painting.
The art room was the place I felt special and like I had
reason to be.
But even so, I waited with my artistic skills. I waited
for them to get better, but they never did.
I always loved helping people. I would always be nice
and I looked for the best in them hoping and wanting
to be liked by everyone- and what teenage girl doesn't
want to be? I waited for the invites to parties to go
get drunk at, I waited to get a high school sweetheart, and
I waited for the time when I would be prom queen.
These are the things that I thought where what you
did in school and I yearned for these experience.
They never came.
I thought that those things would make me happy,
that if I waited long enough they would just naturally accrue.
But I waited for the wrong things. I never realized that
sometimes you have to dive into what you love like
painting and that you have to look around and appreciate
the people and moments that are now.
New nature feeds off those words of temporal happiness,
Leaving behind the misery of poets
To lingering moments of waking in solitude.
Yet, they build in my pulse
Till I find I have been sitting in the shower
For a heavy hour
Disguising lonely deltas.
Eternal ancient mirrors reflect my body falling back
Into the man made rain
Letting droplets hit me on the fontanel
Unable to let them in.
Cause one day all this will only be a memory
And why would I want to add to this heavy pocket of lost history?
This morning my breath
Reached a moment of actuality.
I felt compelled to leave the rain
And start my day with the closest star.
There you go darling,
Rip Grecian suns from the garden of
My soul and let dead trees
Be stained with our love.
The motion has only begun.
I must know that love has privilege
In its pain. the only way to
Truly leave solitary water
Is to accept our flaws
As artistic talent.
Each stab of passion has given me
The tools to create
A portrait of our past attempt.
But I fight this epitome. Seeing your
Face brings anger to my
Persevering smile. I am made
Ashamed of my own inflicted violence,
Destroying my desire to hear your internal maps.
This only leads me back to
Rain and I am caught in
So, I let my desert skin
Take in the water yet again.
But this time
I don't bend my knees
In prayer to our hope.
I swallow the liquid,
Tainted with the blood of city pipes,
And feel my pulse jump out
Toward the lucent droplets
Of some faithful future.