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Blind Pathos Sep 8
Van Gogh’s ear sings tales all night
Soulful moaning over mind’s eye sight

Antagonize the heart and turn the eye
A visitor to the heart or passing by

From this spring that we all drink
What whispers all the thoughts we think

Lunatic genius with eyes turned in
Tell me where my mind has been

A freighting tether is shelter and cage
Where the writer’s pen touches page

Ink’s fossil trail bleeding from my pen
A history of where my heart has been

To go and not say in doing so
Beyond this point no words can go

With feet of clay and hand to chalk
I’ve come to hear Van Gogh’s ear talk
There is a moment just before an idea, it's origin. The magic of the written word is a spark that comes before the writing, up stream, unknown, untamed, shear new. I would follow the path to the origin and bring back great treasures. I have been lost many times, but what else is there to do?
Carlo C Gomez Aug 31
Broken flight

They went down somewhere
in the trees

The sky is sad
and full of remorse

But never Calliope

Broadway and 52

God knows
they got to you

She sings songs
of their misfortune

Decidely the muse and
mother of importune
Andrew Layman Aug 18
In a sacred garden
where no one treads,
the wildness claims all;
overrun, overgrown
none can observe
nothing is known.

There is no friend here for you
once trust is betrayed
no paradise to be shown
the path is blocked
no way to return to home.

Yet, I---
here I remain, here I become,
for all seasons that come and go;
a living epithet of past Adam and Eve
I am the angel
who holds the withered branch
with a story none shall believe.
farhan Jul 23
Sometimes I think,
Whether Satan is an impostor of God.
Out of the cracks from the cosmic egg
Beautified by the hands of El's starry host,
Ordained by Yahweh
Came raining down like a comet
To make known her tent in the land which breathes.

Mysterious art thou face of lucidity.
Taking shape on earth to quench
Their foe; their furnace from their pipes within.
Intertwined with life, woven into our necessities,
I feel thee as thou slither in my body
Mending my ruins, by the kiss
Of thy lips.

Ah i remember now.
When she was not yet known, earth groaned in frustration for thee.
In anguish he cried out to El, to spread her body thy servant
In the fault of his lines and
Sprinkle nourishment
Unto his brittle vases.

In pain oh Yahweh you beheld him,
Sharper than stabs wounds you felt it
Penetrating the iron scales of thy skin
You weeped,
For harsh was the drought
Who roamed untethered on thy rock,
Sculpted to sprout our

But by the decree of your gong
Her **** unfastened,
Gushing forth her insuperable
Upon his thorn.
abecedarian May 14
“Stop this day and night with me
and you shall possess the origin of all poems,
You shall possess the good of the earth and sun,
(there are millions of suns left,)
You shall no longer take things
at second or third hand,
nor look through the eyes of the dead,
nor feed on the spectres in books,
You shall not look through my eyes either,
nor take things from me,
You shall listen to all sides
and filter them from your self.”

Song of Myself (1892 version) by WALT WHITMAN


*These admonitions are the ten conditionals
commandments of straight talk,
you’ve spent a life lessening and lesson-learning
and all laid before you for taking, gaining,
but for what? for naught?

Start this day, having spent my night with you,
possessing less than what is my now
my unfinished commencement,
provisioned, a simultaneous beginning and finishing,
emptying a void of
fulfilling questioning.

What does this life desire of me,
that it granted and then removed,
the knowledge of perfection?
leaving me striving, writhing,
shivering unceasingly,
in my saddened, bursting, hacking
and hackneyed chest.

I walk the same cobblestone streets,
observing the descendants of your ancestral tugs
portaging, paying homage to East River tides,
carrying those goods,
the origins of all poems,
from where? to where?
but always past our conjoined eyes.

And yet do I look, with our merged eyes,
filtered by a century’s discoloration,
forgive me Walt, for now recalling sights
that you first observed,
that I witness first hand,
100 and fifty years later,
sharing a stolen wisdom with you.

Todays new millionth sunrise bids me stand,
observe the river traffic from my kitchen window,
accept that my takings are debts,
a few, even paid back,
yet, most still owed,
for the origins of all my poems,
are oddly and oddity old,
unoriginal, second, third handed
as I look through the eyes of the dead,
and yours too,
this my unoriginal,
original sin....
(pretending  I am a poet)


Manhattan Island,
By the East River
Thu. May 14, 2020
Carlo C Gomez May 10
X & Y
Love chimes

Vectors of heredity
The strong staining
Of dyes

Sisters really
One the original
One the copy
It's all in the packaging

An extraordinary feat of engineering

They form books
They tell stories
But no author?

Come build with me
The gift of eternity
"Your eyes saw even the embryo of me, and in your book all its parts were down in writing, as regards the days when they were formed and there was not yet one among them.” -- Psalm 139:16
I've got
no Roots -

They've been ripped
of me;

my Being,
a wandering Soul
sailing across
Seas of Desolation.
© 06/05/20
Carlo C Gomez Mar 31
Happy and content
in this garden of delight,
yet curiously alone.
Am I one of a kind?
On the verge of sleep
as the sun slips under its blanket.
After the butterflies,
after the somnolent dream,
I was bestirred
by what first seemed a chimera.
The grace and splendor
of a remarkable creation,
and there she stood
making doe eyes,
a twinkle of a smile
curling about her lips.

At once I was besotted,
God had bequeathed to me
His crowning achievement,
and into my care she was placed.
So much to impart,
so much to share.
Together now as united residents,
one flesh,
she will complete me,
and I will dote on her.
A gift to always cherish
as we walk hand in hand.

Her task each new day
is strolling about paradise
in search of nourishment,
to feed us from the fruitage therein,
lest one tree’s offering.
And yet this morning,
another voice summons to be heard,
the rasped utterances
of the cunning,
with tales of his own kingdom coming,
one nibble to freedom, she was assured.
How I wish she’d taken her leave.

She proved too inquisitive,
it took root,
this germination,
and there she lingered.
Eyes caught, unblinking,
her open heart
heavy with wanton hunger.
Who whispered unto you, my darling?

Standing before me
I surrendered to her,
an ill-fated collusion,
co-conspirators to sin.
We ate in the shadow of a silver birch
and awakened to our nakedness.
Eyes wide open!

Discomfited, we struggled
to conceal our shame
What has happened to us, dearest?
Avowal and discord.
Trouble and strife.

"It was the woman you gave me!"
"It was the serpent," she countered.
A betrayal to our God
neither of us wished to confess.
Dust had been thrown in her eyes,
my transgressions were clear-sighted.
Together now as
evicted tenants,
flawed, imperfect flesh,
she will pine for me,
and I will reign over her.

Oh, how I vanquished this gift,
this blessed union.
What tragedy,
what irony:
As I take her hand,
I also fully understand
she is now eternally,
lost to me...
farhan Mar 21
The best time to look up to the stars was last night,
The second best is tonight.
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