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Unpolished Ink May 2022
Oh Vincent
if only you had known
the world would one day marvel
at your sunflowers
and those waving fields of grain
you left us
but they will remain
a part of you
the beating heart of you
the art of you
for your success was unforeseen
you left us
with what might have been
A M Ryder May 2020
His command of color
Most magnificent

He transformed the pain
Of his tormented life
Into ecstatic beauty

Pain is easy to portray
But to use your
Passion and pain
To portray the ecstasy and joy
And magnificence of our world

No one had ever done it before

Perhaps no one will again
Thomas W Case Feb 2020
There goes Vincent with
his jagged sky, and
ragged beard.
His cobalt blue are
stained with the glue that should
hold us all together,
but it doesn't.
His sunflowers are lost
on humanity.
When we can't hold
on to what we pretend to love,
we **** it...
Usually in small
treacherous ways,
like apathy or
it's about the under appreciation of artists until their dead.
johnny solstice Jun 2019
The smoke that swirled up from her pipe
hung there in the air, partly obscuring her face

With cupped hands she began
    to gather the smoke
  as if it were sand on the beach

Very carefully she began stroking
and teasing it until it appeared
to be taking on the properties of a solid

What had been the contents of her lungs
moments before, were now compressed
to the size of a tennis-ball

This blue-grey sphere hung there between
us like some strange smoke-filled soap-bubble

As I began to open my mouth to say something
a sword the size of a pin flew from my lips, and
burst the bubble whereupon the smoke fell
to the floor like fine white snow…….

          “…don’t you know?” she said, with a grin,
         “…that’s just the way that wars begin!”

As she refilled the pipe with twigs and weeds
she raised one eye-brow and a voice somewhere
between us said…..
”so you want to find yourself,do you?……..
don’t you know that talking to yourself
is the first sign of ’SANITY?”….

“And with that my mouth
involuntarily said “FORKS”
but the sound didn’t come
    from the side of her bed
came the unmistakable sound of forks falling on a
wooden floor…….and everything began to rhyme
   then I heard the chime of her quartz clock
a rooster appeared, with an immense ****
                               ……..attached to it’s head
                                    by the wind it is lead
                   but East is opposite North instead

  then she scooped it up
    and it turned to twigs..
before my eyes could adjust….
…….the phosphorous flash of IGNITION
                     the firey INQUISITION
As she relit the pipe, with what seemed to be
             my thoughts and dreams made real
                                        in solid words
                                            in solid air
                             I cried in deep despair
                   for the weight of untold shame
                             that showered like rain
                   on those who could not explain
                                         their own pain
                           on those trapped in shame
                               those crucified for vain
                           making everyone to blame
                                             for MY pain
                                    which falls like rain
                                into her upturned hand
                                   where it forms a lake
                                     called “my mistake”

Based on a lack or something missing
                     I can hear the hissing
                          of the black snake
                  the guardian of the gate
                 my birthright to legislate
                catch fire before my eyes
                 as  another dreamy spire
                 of grey-blue smoke…….
                     …….rises into the void
for a brief moment the only rhyme is

             but just as quickly it is gone

As the pipe glows then rises musical notes pour
from its bowl as if the Mistral wind itself were
blowing through the embers.
Upon inhaling I am surprised to find that my
companion has been joined by Oscar Wilde…
heavily, theatricaly disguised as an empty chair
    with accompanying wall-paper

This observation becomes solid in the air
and suddenly there are chairs everywhere
in my pockets, in my pipe, in my hair…..
chairs of every size and type and colour everywhere
no standing room, just chair upon chair upon chair

“Collect your thoughts” said Oscar Wilde
to me, as if I was a naughty child
So, slowly, I gather the chairs together
with cupped hands, like sand, into one single chair
then lay my pipe upon it to make it real
from behind the canvas I step….my hands reveal
                       GRIND AND CRUSH
                                       YELLOW OCHRE
                                                    CHROME YELLOW
                                                              yell “HELLO!”

“    “….have you fallen in love with that pipe?” asks the chair
       As I stare…
            yellow sunflowers everywhere
festoon the walls, the floor, the chair…..
there's rubber clothes and x-ray hair
           starry nights and daymares
         loveless thighs and derrieres
          cut price love unguaranteed
    sure-fire ways to dispose of seed
right now…… with GREED-SPEED
            rivers of come, knee-deep
            bed’s on fire…..can’t sleep
cut off my ears but they won’t bleed
               instead they turn to ****
which I place on the chair with the pipe
and invite my companion to take her feed
   “…don’t mind if I do” she replies
  “…but must we forever sit inside?”
“..not far from here I think I spied”
“… a cornfield……some countryside..”
“we could walk far, and near, and wide
then round and left and right outside
till darkness falls upon our heads…..
  and sends us scurrying for our beds”

But sleep won’t come
because some elektronik hum
is buzzing in the walls
makes me shiver in my *****
till my spirit-level falls
and my skin begins to crawl
off my body,….up the walls
         reality DISSOLVES
………skinned alive on a granite rock
……beneath the stars of future-shock

with billions of others
           with no cover
other …than the cold blankets of mist
        that hiss
           from the wounds in my wrist
         reality persists

              CAN MY SOUL RESIST?




…….or will they crumble like the rest?

                             and be blessed

                                        by her

          as she smokes me in her pipe ….

               I am scorched by her love

         that comes raining from above

                   into my upturned hand

        and when I can no longer stand

               another day another night

                  in this lifetime of fright

                 and I want to take flight

               I drink her from my hand

like fresh spring water on a summer’s day

                      she makes my head sway

              to the natural rhythm

               of her breath……..

                 of her smoke…..

                   of her hair……..

                     of her chair….

        of ANYWHERE

      where she is…..

She gives me back my skin

         fills me to her brim

then strikes another match

and draws me deep inside

till I can no longer hide…

      my grin, a mile wide

   I’m safe here inside



     THE VOID….
A Feb 2019
How does it feel to be disliked by your whole village
But loved by a world you never got to know

Arles never once treated you with the same beauty as you saw in it
Concern for your wellbeing never came from the people you passed
Not even after they learned that you had taken your last breath
Your memory contained nothing but whispered rumors
They painted the picture of the madman who kept no company
Disregarding the compassion that flowed out of you
Only some knew the truth and what events molded
The trauma that shaped the man who frequented empty fields
Auvers-sur-Oise knew you as a separate man entirely
They stole pieces of you that you did not even have of yourself
Made you their crown jewel, nothing more than a story to keep the town alive
No part of your legacy remained untouched, just as no relationship you’d held stayed pure
Your own doctor claimed your art and in turn your reputation for himself
But how were you to have stopped them
Especially when you were not around to plead for anything different

How does it feel to be disliked by your whole village
But loved by a world you never got to know
AUGUST Sep 2018
Sino ba ang modernong vincentiano?
Ano ba ang kanyang pagkatao?
Nagtatanong sa sarili ko
Habang pinagmamasdan ang mahinanang kamay
Kung anong magawa ko
Dito ba sa munting palad nakahimlay
Ang lahat ng kakayahan ko?

Anong meron ako, anong meron tayo? kundi kaalaman.

Kaalaman na di galing sa sabi sabi nilang “hugot”
Kundi sa piraso ng mga aral na ating pinulot
Dahil sa disiplina tayo y nililok
Ang kabutihang asal sa diwa ay pumasok

Mula sa Mga **** nating tinuturing na magulang,
Mga mababang tao na ating ginagalang,
Mga taong nakilala mula ng tayo’y musmos pa lang
Ipinamana sa atin ang pananampalataya, pagpapakumbaba, at kabutihan

Ang tanggapin ang katotohanan,
At hangganan ng kakayahan
Ang malaman ang kahinaan, kahit may kasimplehan
Pilit inaabot ang makatulong ng buong kalooban

Ng walang hinihintay na kapalit
Tulad ng modelo nating si San Bisente (st. Vincent)
Na sa pagtulong ay di napagod
Kaya sa mata ng Diyos naging kalugod lugod

Salamat sa  Amang nasa itaas
Na nagbibigay ng lakas
Ang lakas na di nauubos
Para sa aming misyon na di pa rito natatapos

Sandata ay ang panalangin
Lakas ng loob at damdamin
Dahil sa Diyos na mahabagin
Walang pagsubok sa buhay ang hindi kakayanin

Ating misyon, ang tumulong sa mga kapus palad at nawawalan
Hindi lang sa taong nawawalan ng materyal na kayamanan
Kundi para sa mga taong naliligaw, nalilito at nagugulumihan
Pagkat ating ramdam ang bawat hirap
Ang bigat na tinitiis ng bawat taong may pinapasan

Handang makiramay at ibigay ang anuman
Para lamang ang paghihirap sa pighati ay maibsan
Pagkat sa bawat taong ating natutulongan
gantimpalang pangkaluluwa ang dapat ipagyaman

Sino ang gumagawa nito?
Sino ba ang modernong vincentiano?
Isa ba ako sa mga ito?
Ang modernong vincentiano ay di lang ako kundi tayo
Ang modernong vincentaino ay nagsasakripisyo at mapagpakumbabang nagseserbisyo
Ang modernong vincentiano ang magpapatuloy ng ating kwento.
Ang tula kong ipinanalo ng first runner up sa isang slam poetry competition ng event na may temang "Ang Modernong Vincentiano" noong September 26, 2018.
Bragi Aug 2018
A Story of guilt.
Not for him, for us.

Strokes and flicks,
Glides of guilded golds
Hushed in the Blues,
Innocence in the Greens;
Boldly infused oils
Spilling out on a canvas;
A legacy built on
Sorrow. Toil. Turmoil.
Who with dark indents on a page shaded in
Shadows showed
Work. Work, work,
Constant work.
A Starry Night’s muse.
All the while cowards saying they always
Always loved,
Always loving
Jesse stillwater Jul 2018
there are the ones
that feel it climb up
the shadow towards the light,
hesitation on every rung,
each wave of the arising
      overwhelms  unabated ―
and woe betides those
who are on the run
from a storm's deluge

A rousing ocean breeze
stirs inside the memory
of an unframed seashell
lying on the hearth mantel;
heightened sensitivity
lapping soundlessly,
spindrift plashing
the shoreline
of another world's
feigned peace

Perhaps the muted voice
of guilty pleasures,
hushed by their own
hidden truths
Feeling the unfelt textures
of every stifled vibration
left unbreathed

The naked truth befallen
so cold and lonely
Running in circles,
volatile as all those
     unspoken excitations raging ―
and the whispers of those
who hear not
the voices in the wind

An emotionally enslaved  heart
tarries,  marooned high and dry
in a memory on a distant sand bar
     lain fallow for so long ―
stagnant darkness
of an unsated soul
gathered on the back
of a parched tongue
sullied wordless

Rising up through
a dusty hieroglyph corridor
through an unlocked
labyrinth gate;  vestige echoes
from somewhere left behind
in an incomprehensible
abandoned wake

It's getting harder and harder
   for an insatiable soul to breathe ...
   climbing up a tree trunk―
up within the silence
of the listening tree

  Toes dug into
the rough bark furrows ―
fingers reaching upwards
beyond their deepest known grasp

A shadow stranded
out on a hangin' bough
hearkening without ears that hear:
“perhaps they’ll listen now“  
the wingless bird sings
in psalms that fly away
on tattered feathers
over untamed waters roil

Back to nature’s waning youth,
the bough bends unbroken
to taste the freedom
of the wild absolving seas

Jesse Stillwater
June     2018
a friend sent  a link to a deeply thought provoking modern classic 70's song about Vincent Van Gogh and the complexities of imperfection some of us relate .... i'd listened to the words prior but never heard before now.

  Title is last final lyric line from:  "Vincent" (Starry, Starry night) 1971
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