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 Dec 2012 Aditya Bhaskara
Tilly
Really.
                               What will they think...
And
what, could they do?
:)
I sit among the winds of human souls
where darkness dares not speak
of storms that rock deep anguish
until it becomes
a fire inside you.  
These winds are more complete
when they rest upon my tongue
and get lost inside a dance
crying “let me go”
without use
of a cold attitude.

No fear do I have
of the years gone by,
I barely knew
of their passing.  
It seems as if their value
has been exiled to a corner,
left there
to dream.
So I can sit among the winds
without a single care
crashing in and demanding
I have remorse
for holding back
the years
self-esteem.

Where there is sinister intent
and darkness clouds the sky,
there are moments
when the secrets of the wind
chase the substance
known as peace.
I feel the heat against my body
as I sit among the winds
accepting kisses
on my lips
from years gone by,
exiled............
begging for release.
Copyright @2012 - Neva Flores-Changefulstorm
In this wild resplendent place
ferns unfurl softly green
below bearded mossy trees
rain falls, birds call, echoing
sound of deep forest
breathing
The displays

Half-a-commode....
salvaged from
construction-site debris, in an enclosure;

Corrugated tin...
inverted containers,
shop-floor seats, hollow from the inside;

Squashed up...
aluminium coke-cans
and bottle-lids, stashed by the dozens;

Rusting old pair...
of dented batteries -
A-class, from discarded torch lights;

Mounted rectangle...
sketch-canvas
half-a-diagonal triangle coloured black;

Foreground*

Expanse of water...
mirage lit by
a deceptive lamp playing evening sun.
Picture poem:

Inspired by a visit years ago, to London's beautiful 'Tate Modern' art gallery featuring urban kitsch art: I was reflecting on the year past and my thoughts veered to the increasingly difficult future we confront and how this is reflected in incidents of increasing madness across the world, with our backs braced at an environmental cliff.

I've sought to capture the melancholy moods of objects displayed, raising a contemplative sweep of our post-industrial world and the futures we confront, captured by the images of the seemingly crazy display of a half-painted rectangle passing off as art*  and  the eerie image of an artificial sun!

*'Higher Powers Command: Paint the Upper Right Corner Black!' by Sigmar Polke
I bored a hole through the rock of resistance
lining the base of my heart
oh the terrible pain -
with the rotor blade of hardened resolve,
to heal, to heal,
until I have reached my soul:
look - the waters of love -
they gush over.
Sweet waters of love,
To heal both you and me.
This axe wound on my trunk
is sore not all by you:
In the dead of the night
I welcomed the shadowy woodcutter;
Now I find recompense.
But now, sweet waters of love,
from the soul -
to heal both you and me.
From my scrap-book: notes jotted down earlier this year!
Bright torn horizon
Silver and dark clouds converging
Some stretched, some piled high
Racing hard across the straits
To snow deep the waiting tors
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