I have seen it, O world,
I have seen it as one sees the clouds
or as one feels water naked in the cool lake  
at the break of dawn
I have felt it as one feels the grapes
seized with savage hands and crushed against one’s teeth
O I have seen the rise and fall of pain
and greed and name and fame
and I have lived the grand ways of the world
of favor and office and recognition
and reward and loss and desertion and days of merry company
and years of desolation and years of patronage and commission
and I have cupped young soft flesh in both my hands;
and I have seen loss, death and growth and promise
and stealth and destruction and infamy
and I have seen genius and I have witnessed mediocrity
and you know, I have amazed and I have disappointed -
as you, O world, as you have disappointed and amazed
I have seen the pageant of emotions
of the rise and fall and the transition and journeys
of all thought and ambition and desire and want
O world, I have seen you and you have much of me
and we have struggled and we have cursed and approved
and we have raised our heads and we have looked the other way
and you have heaped praise and dispraise
and I have created and I have destroyed
and I have cut my own canvas into parts –
but still, O world, still,
if you look at me, if you look –
you know, you know
*I, Rembrandt,
I am always the Monarch

I dreamed last night
of a battle field of frogs
much like opposing human soldiers
we have seen
in their violent play:
there was a general leading
his battalion to war
riding a bloated frog-soldier;
and the frogs used reed
to pound and beat their enemies;
and some used green shoots as rifles
and many a frog, I can assure you,
they did croak in the battlefield…


What does this dream
of the war of frogs presage
for us mice and rats in the city?
I have yet to ask the owl
that hoots nightly in the hollow
of the tree in the park
but my instinct tells me
there'll be a great human battle
and we'll have plenty to eat
for generations to come

It flows
people gape but do not see
it flows
they rather postulate
and grasp at comfort-ideas
and doctrine and theology
and build systems of beliefs
and fantasize in the hereafter
But it flows
not with a beginning
or end
or with a start or finish
with promise or tension
but of its own nature
disinterested
in its essence
and expressing itself
as it glows
it flows
in the mountains and the falls
and in the rocks and in the leaves and in the air
it flows
and in the beholder too
in intelligence and consciousness
so that the beholder and subject are one
It flows

Hot Coffee at the Tracks.
clickety-clack,
steam from the cups and pots,
steam from the stacks,
this whistle-stop with a cup of "Joe,"
on the way home with yet many miles to go...

____

See the painting that inspired the poem:

"Homeward Bound" by David Tutwiler
http://www.myhdwallpapers.net/wallpapers/Train-station-painting-original.jpg

The poet’s quill scribes a vision of the debutante
as she rests amongst the bluebells
Scattered like jewels over the meadow.

The delicate voice of the robins
Echo through the valley,
Where the gentleman tells of his ardor
As they shelter amongst the weeping willows.

Curls tumble from the confines of her hat,
Parasol tilting to hide girlish blushes,
Careless of her silk skirts
they are crushed, lying as broken rose petals.

She glows with the joy of an un-chaperoned picnic
Scent of cinnamon scrolls tempt her senses,
as her beau offers cider to moisten their suddenly dry throats.

Dapper in his impeccable finery,
Coat tails trailing, crisply starched shirt points lifting his chin,
Top hat tilted at a rakish angle.
Dark eye’s glinting with the thrill of his endeavors.

Sunshine silhouettes the glory of the lovers,
whom the poet has sewn together
as an artist creates a masterpiece.

Each syllable as a brushstroke on canvas.
A Monet made not of oil and brushes,
But ink and parchment.
Every word scribed by the care of the poet,
Transformed within the mind of the reader

In the sky tonight hangs a perfect Half-Moon,
when I looked up above, I thought about you,
in your paint-stained clothes and all your artwork, too,
memories of our friendship flourished and bloomed.

With your hands so hearty and your talents unbound,
I saw close up how you artistry astounds,
I remembered our fights, disagreements and tears,
but we always remained close friends over the years.

I sure miss our talks about art over wine,
snacking on crackers and cheese every time,
yet the thing I treasure most about you, my friend,
is the respect and love that will never end.
___

See Nolan's toilet here:
http://www.addictedtowalls.com/contemporary-art-paintings/graffiti-tag-art/Duchamp-new-contemporary-art.html

See Nolan in his paint-stained clothes here:
http://www.addictedtowalls.com/contemporary-art-paintings/graffiti-tag-art/Graffiti-MSK-nolan-painting.html

See all the amazing artwork of Nolan Haan here:
http://www.addictedtowalls.com/
__
The "Half-Moon Inn" is the historic building/art gallery I lived in that Nolan had restored with the help of his partner-at-arms, Mitchell.

Read my blog story for all the exciting details and breath-taking photos of The Half Moon Inn and it's lush, tropical gardens!
http://dee-light-full.blogspot.com/

About suffering they were never wrong,
The Old Masters; how well, they understood
Its human position; how it takes place
While someone else is eating or opening a window or just walking dully along;
How, when the aged are reverently, passionately waiting
For the miraculous birth, there always must be
Children who did not specially want it to happen, skating
On a pond at the edge of the wood:
They never forgot
That even the dreadful martyrdom must run its course
Anyhow in a corner, some untidy spot
Where the dogs go on with their doggy life and the torturer's horse
Scratches its innocent behind on a tree.

In Breughel's Icarus, for instance: how everything turns away
Quite leisurely from the disaster; the ploughman may
Have heard the splash, the forsaken cry,
But for him it was not an important failure; the sun shone
As it had to on the white legs disappearing into the green
Water; and the expensive delicate ship that must have seen
Something amazing, a boy falling out of the sky,
had somewhere to get to and sailed calmly on.

raindrops on the windshield
glistening like stars
the darkness surrounds me
and warms my heart

the wipers are still
lest they erase
the beautiful painting
before my face

created by God
and admired by me
a quiet reminder
of the beauty
that He can create
if we'll only surrender
our whole selves to Him
and allow Him to render
our tarnished souls shining
and our ***** hearts clean

I was once God's Picasso painting
(the Guernica era).
Chuck Jones' illustration
of the tortured artist,
laid out like Wile E. Coyote
on a bed of scalding rocks
and a white flag screaming "SURRENDER"
clenched with both palms.

If it were feasible,
I'd have dove head first
into the smoky center of the sun
if it meant my audience understood
the shrieking woes I had to bellow through
to reach their overwhelmed palates.

But Tragedy is the sitcom foil
that has long outstayed its menopausal welcome,
and I would much prefer a haunting.

To Hell with those
who repulse the flies with
the vinegar of exploitation,
gawking as their spit seeps
through seven layers of collected scars,
who ventilate the wrists
to keep the audience comfortable.

Real aesthetic power
comes from a shower
of light hail on the spine,
the moments a ghostly hand
****** you on the finger
with quietly hidden truths
always whispered from a field away.

It's far more bracing,
the lump in the throat,
not the electrical gasp of shock.

It's a far greater sign
of a forthcoming apocalypse,
the angel weeping in pain,
not the footsteps
of the wailing banshee.

The wisp
over the wallop.

Paint me to whatever you please
stretch me, bend me, twist me
Sculpt me from ear to ear
Wrap your hands around my brain
Smear my mind, **** my body, bare my soul
Elegant lines that all match
from my head, to my waist, to my sole

one perfect painted picture
hung crooked on the wall,
one day it will completely wither,
and it will die and fall,

a new picture will be painted
and hung in the same place,
its memory tainted,
by a once dead space,

it too will one day die,
and another painting
will be hung with another sigh,
furthering the tainting
of another painting that will die

If only the crucified trees
could speak or scream
and tell us where to cast our gaze.
“To the sky!” they’d say,
where cotton candy clouds
are pink plumes of possibility.

If only these crucified trees
could speak or scream
above the howling wind
then maybe just maybe
our salty sweat of toil
could somehow be sweetened
by their resolute will.

What the trees once were
will always be,
their scars remain the tortured skin,
weathered trunks, empty souls
and empty pockets… yet still
they find a way to feed and
nurture blossoming buds.

….if only we might lift our eyes
and learn from the trees…