at last something broke you
and that something, it was you
you were closing your eyes
you were seeing it through
you blew up and sold
the world outside and within
and i fell on your black day
you showed me how to live
you showed me how to die
and no matter how hard i try
to stare at the sun
it is black to my blind eyes
and suddenly my eyes are open
somehow things begin to focus
we are all illuminated
light is shining on our faces
until our rapture
falls to pieces
these are stolen
bits and pieces
new york is hot
how i loathe where i'm living
Bharata, you fought
now it's i who is giving
and now fly
now fly from your empty cage, girl
you are rust and the sky
always killing the bird
see, i am the night
jesus christ i suppose
see, i am the light
i don't mean to remind you
of anything you gave me in song
you blessed my muse with your light
what you did was so wrong
the light in us was darkness
how the night is so long
light a fire, wait for summer
we black stars wander on
september's come and gone
here comes my december
and half gone
broken and cold
but all is still holy
Hallelujah, and through you
yes everything, holy
did we want it darker
so you turned out the light?
now i'm doing time
playing with meter and rhyme
longing to be in the house
of my own secret life
until the sea must free us
i'll wait for you there
you came just to see us
all we sailing where?
all of us sailors
rowers, keep rowing
now no light is showing
now the danger's approaching
row gently, never gently!
upstream to ignite
row never gently!
rage at that night!
oh captain, my lying captain
turn around and take me home
a long time ago
i thought you'd died alone
everybody knows this boat's leaking
all the white horses stopped sleeping
the ponies stopped running
i the band just keep playing
though the girls now are aging
lilac wine, sweet and heady
how my hand is unsteady
how aghast and unready
like my love that is ending
like the last night you danced me
when the music was over
you turned out the lights
you kissed me goodnight
with a thousand goodbyes
still in my dreams you walk dripping
from the sea where i'm slipping
from the sea that shall free me
to my hut that is ripping
through the masterpiece
how my soul is worn thin
i can't even begin
so i'll speak no more
and if it be your will
i'll sink beneath your wisdom
like a stone
like a stone
i'll wait for you there
Did their updates cease
when their minds gave them no peace.
Did the positive become like shadows to the negative haters,
and those who hated became their annihilators.
Their relatability was more than you knew
as your thoughts strangled you theirs also grew
But while you had their expression
their expression left them in a depression
You wondered where they went
Tortured Artists is such a cliche, but it is also often the truth.
A revised version of a previous poem that was messed up and inconsistently done. Shoddy writing on my part then.
Holiday of Light
The holiday celebrating the miracle from a death
A spirit healing itself through his father.
Light had shone down to healing forgiveness
Even to his enemies who inflicted such harm
Upon an innocent and caring profit
Out of fear over what they didn't understand
or felt the jealousy of a brighter mind and heart becoming a source of truer loving leadership
A selfish need of attention
Their demands of forced beliefs of their own failed teachings
Clashed with Jesus’ truer teachings
Life and Growth
The hearts’ leadership that was stronger than Earth’s governors
Lead him to be crucified
Forgiveness even as he suffered to his death
He flew to the heavens
and still sought to bring
the evil ones
up with him to the promised afterlife lands.
Spinning metal hoop
The beauty starts with pain
Learn man in the moon,
Advance to double elbow hang.
It hurts behind the knees,
The first time is the hardest
Your hands get callus-y
But you’ll feel like such an artist.
White chalk will dust your hair
And after class you’re stiff,
But first time in the air,
And you’ll always have that aerial itch.
Draft... I might add more later
Once pen is put to paper
have a deeply felt responsibility
to complete their works.
Even when drawing for themselves,
they are secretly drawing for you,
their invisible audience.
As I arrived at the apex of my life
I took a look around and saw
that I was not myself as I once had been,
I am now a faint copy, soft lines with blunt edges.
There was nothing sharp, dynamic or bold left of me.
I sacrificed my inner fire to create
a more welcoming environment for somebody else.
I had turned myself into a picket fence
when I was once not only a steep mountain
but the entire horizon.
“It is our function as artists to make the spectator see the world our way not his.” - Mark Rothko
To have the guts like Sinatra’s to declare
through regrets, tears and despair
“I got through it all and did it my way”
Oh, to trust the power in me and stay
always authentic and true
to my point of view
no matter how out of sync
or what proper poets think
The Rothko chapel with its paintings of black
took me completely aback
they seemed non-paintings to me
but I sat in the changing light and could see
the artistry in that quiet urban place
I could feel his gentle grace
he forced me to see his world
in his hues and strokes and curls
A Rothko or Sinatra I am not
but if in my lines are caught
the sweet or dark breath of my muse
if I speak in my voice with its hues
maybe a whiff of spirit there
will cast a piece of my soul and snare
someone’s musing causing them to write
and fling out their world in their light.
The Rothko Chapel is on the University of St. Thomas campus in Houston, Texas. It is an irregular octagonal brick building with gray or rose stucco walls and a baffled skylight. It serves as a place of meditation as well as a meeting hall and is furnished with eight simple, moveable benches for meditative seating. About 55,000 people visit the chapel each year. Fourteen of Rothko's paintings are displayed in the chapel. Three walls display triptychs, while the other five walls display single paintings. Beginning in 1964, Rothko began painting a series of black paintings, which incorporated other dark hues and texture effects. [Based on article in Wikipedia]
See them go..
A million suicidal shamblers, staring out
Hatred and beauty and dilated eyes
And long hair punks waiting for a revolution that will save them. United in disunity, calmed by deaths and shocked by wonders of medicine
Cool and collected, lost and dyslexic
They wonder at the halogen lights and stare at extinguished candles
Catching at the edge of their sight a whiff of angel-smoke
How many were cast out and how many ran
To this mecca, this eden, this dying heaven
Filled with the dead? Who knows
They are the ones who wander in daylight through the city square
Swigging red wine and chanting obscene hymns
Naked millennial drag kings of all they survey
living in art deco flats, old factories and empty rooms
they lie awake and listening to the shunting streets outside
and the symphony of buskers on the corner.
They love each other in wild ******
Dancing to rhythms stolen from slave songs
Screaming, bellies full of claret
And brassic basic dysphoric cravings they writhe and fall
And hum against each others’ bodies
Drawing knives along each others’ veins
Waiting for the revolution.
That will save them.