"colorlessness" poems
We are the fingers of fog
That grasp the hilltop and
Pull the fog eyes up to see
If the sleeping valley below
Needs a blanket.
We are the mist that clings to her stream
Long after other mists have
Retreated to safety.
The mist that forsakes herself,
We are the October late-day light
That deepens the blue
And livens the green
And crowns Crimson
Your fleeting, quick-fading queen.
To distract you from thoughts
Of the cold colorlessness to come.
We are the grainy gray shadows at dusk
That camouflage the vulnerable
And vex the predator
So that the small
May scurry homeward.
We are the soft illusion
Of a bright twinkling cloud glimpse
Of the shy Milky Way
That pulls down the astral children’s shade
And hides the rage of the stars,
Indulging snug earthbound mortals
To dream their snug earthbound dreams
Under the proctor of Venus and Mars.
We are the saving grace
Between you and reality,
The light hand
Upon your shoulder
That keeps you from
Going over the edge.
Nov 5, 2018
Nov 5, 2018 at 5:37 AM UTC
In between shear white and jet-black
with a strong dollop of indigo blue,
lies the pale uncertainty of grayness
the most God-awful hue.
Grayness frustrates the senses.
Grayness stipulates malaise.
A shroud of indecision
arrests the imagination;
chained in wisps of doubt.
The definition of things
routed in a solitary
palette of insincerity.
Grayness negates options.
Grayness obscures landscapes.
Objects disappear
into walls of foggy smiles,
whispering repetitive monotones
of monotonous monologues
in incomprehensible language.
The mind is muted in a pall of haze.
Endless colorlessness of the days.
Days upon days of arctic blight.
Midwinter's endless drama.
White dust
sprinkled on the brain,
layering coats
of a suffocating
ashen pallor.
Dimming the wit,
Quelling the spirit.
Thoughts of light are captured
then lost
in craggy crevasses
of a dull blackened cranium.
Light can't touch the eye
Plaque builds in a hearts ventricle
Warmth escapes the body
and evaporates through
the magic of convection.
A vision remains;
barely an apparition
of a distant
dissipating ghost.
Belgian Café
Hudson St.
NYC
1/29/99
Music Selection:
Roslavets, Three Etudes
Mar 17, 2013
Mar 17, 2013 at 9:52 AM UTC
Colorlessness filth inside
Spiritless and exposed
The bloodshed of humanity prolongs
As Injustice penetrates our wounds
As we have lost our way
Dec 6, 2013
Dec 6, 2013 at 11:33 PM UTC
I touch death
everywhere. It is
pleasant sometimes. It is shooting
upright stone forever
up. It is
cold metal blue, wind moving rushes,
holding on to a snag as smooth as couch
chamois. It is
feeling wooden table bones, random spontaneous
tapestries, my skin, your skin,
my clothes wet with substance,
drawn through mass downwards, on to
you.
I would let them go through me, if I
could, like smoke, like
talk, I feel
(deaf, mute) the smoke inside from
the drug inside. It would be outlawed
if they could
reach inside,
visible words of hair-lit thinness
on what is sought, reflections appearing on
the beyond side of ordinary surfaces,
tasting like
salmon. I saw the glinting
salmon meaning in a poem, Jorie. It was
like when the sun came out with her,
predictably, and I thought to trust it,
perhaps this once, for hurt can’t last
without the good also
lasting. Maybe I
just wasn’t listening right, this potential
human being, this possibility, this normal
occurrence, mundane, talked and
scribbled dismissively as a dejected
thought of dejection about dejection about
what it is
all about. Write it down,
it’s a crossword, long as the climbing
steps around the earth, senseless as
black.
white.
There could be much in nothing, but it’s
everywhere outside, and there are just a few
stars, really. The billions are
few
in the outward sinking sky.
See, I touch death, colorlessness,
everything, sitting on
ledges, feet dangling, today as yesterday
as tomorrow, trying to stop this thinking
habit, trying to be a Buddha about it, but the
wind is
cold
this time, and there are too many of you.
Maybe next time something will appear here,
in soaking colors and ever
pulsing acceptance, understanding
blood, moving,
living, meaning
from beyond here, tomorrow or yesterday,
but I hope today, before I am touched
by it, and realize
nothing.
Mar 27, 2012
Mar 27, 2012 at 8:00 PM UTC
There was once a boy
A boy that resembled a toy.
A boy who wore oversized shoes,
Baggy pants and unusual spectacles.
A short stub,
That lazed clumsily around the room,
A boy whose appearance was hardly noticeable,
And presence engulfed.
The poor boy was constantly annoyed,
Teased and bothered.
Thrown around the room
Like the rag he seemed to be.
There seemed no escape,
From terrifying bullies,
That roamed around the school,
Waiting patiently to crush him.
The helpless boy waited,
For the Bully to take him,
Grab him by the shoulders,
And smother his dreams in pain.
One day, however, the boy waited.
He waited patiently
For the bullies to take command,
But they never did, they just walked past.
The lonely boy discovered,
That he pertained an unknown power,
One that left him nameless,
And devoid of appearance.
He knew he was not vitreous,
See-through or transparent.
But he could roam through a room,
Unnoticed, overlooked.
He could run through a clear field,
And go unperceived.
He was able to devour a thousand meals,
And never be blamed.
Such abilities brought wonderful joys,
And grand pleasures,
However such leisure brought
Terrible solitude in return.
The assurance of his safety warmed him,
Knowing he’d be free of harm.
But the gawky boy was lonely,
Devoid of company or charm.
He roamed the halls alone,
He sat absently in his desk.
And slowly his loneliness
Began to consume him.
He was overcome
by the colorlessness of his pale skin,
The crookedness of his misshapen brow.
He slowly fainted, into a mirrored glass.
The boy had become,
That he had always been;
Another shadow,
Another gust of wind.
His pale skin disintegrated.
The oversized shoes sank.
His spectacles shattered.
The smirk evanesced.
The boy became,
That which cannot be named.
A light breeze,
A faint whisper.
Oct 27, 2014
Oct 27, 2014 at 11:16 PM UTC
Eccentricity Isn’t Craziness, It’s Daring
Eccentricity isn ‘t craziness, it’s daring
To the -enth degree:
A caring not what they decree,
Not caring what they think of me.
The unconventional disarming,
Often charming -
What is normal?
Living life like all the rest,
I guess accepting colorlessness.
Planets are eccentric
And the sun’s just doing fine.
It shines on planetary quirks,
Sustains the quirk so that it works.
So,
We too can be a sun;
No planet going round,
No moon, but one
Unusual, bright son-of-a gun
Who does his ‘thing’ because it is
The only thing that makes things run,
The only thing that makes life fun
The misfit may not be a genius,
May be middling or bizarre.
Having said that, I give honor
To the one who does his thing
Since he sees through
The illusion, the delusion, the chimère .
Eccentricity Isn’t Craziness…9.3.2015 The Processes: Creative, Thinking, Meditative II; revised/ 9.30.2018 Arlene Nover Corwin
Sep 30, 2018
Sep 30, 2018 at 1:43 PM UTC
Made of finest wood
Reshaped - sharpened into perfect one
Holding this stick of wisdom
Its colorlessness speaks
Tracing the marks
Letter of death
Reconstructed uncountable times
Erased words of mime
This work must be blinded
For this pencil sharpened many times
Could I leave marks in permanent
Nor could I not leave
The world with truth unsaid?
Apr 22, 2019
Apr 22, 2019 at 7:28 AM UTC
Debilitated beams of moonlight enter
This darkened church as I kneel
Always sorrowful, always lost
Frigid here as I wait
Tortured silhouettes fashioned in panes of glass
As dust dances in the air
Creating an image in my mind
Penetrating my humiliated flesh
With the colorlessness of humanity's face
I raise my head, now kneeling before
This merciless mortality.
Jun 5, 2013
Jun 5, 2013 at 9:20 PM UTC
POEM 55
*Everyone talks about demons,
but how many
have actually seen one?
I have
cause they live inside;
every time I mirror look.
They are small,
smelly ***** of blood matted fur
with sharp razor teeth, and
they never let you go.
Gnawing
biting
ripping
drinking your mind
with hypnotic cruelty
and away from the reality
of this even more horrific world;
leaving you alone
with your pain
as companion.*
*I don’t go out any more,
broke - no shattered
all the mirrors.
I just sit in this room
filled with four walls of colorlessness.
Sssssssssh...
Don’t talk
maybe if I’m very quiet
they will leave me alone
where I can think
about, sweet
blissful
death.*
Aztec Warrior 9.11.15
Sep 12, 2015
Sep 12, 2015 at 8:46 AM UTC
I've been staring at a blank canvas..
Its cloth looking back at me,
With no sense of direction,
begging for inspiration.
A purpose maybe.
Something to guide it from its emptiness.
But I'm weak and my mind is tired.
Perhaps I have become too comfortable with the lifeless and colorlessness of this canvas that I have failed to realize..
I've been looking in a mirror all along.
Jan 22, 2018
Jan 22, 2018 at 4:41 AM UTC
Imagine
every single person
here on earth
is black
please don't have
a heart attack
all the shirts are purple
shoes are blue
cars too
so they can't say
anything
about you
and all the houses
painted pink
if you don't want to end up
in the clink
imagine
all we've got
is muslim mosques
where we can pray
I wonder what
we would say
Sean Hunt
Feb 14th 2015
Dec 2, 2015
Dec 2, 2015 at 7:31 AM UTC
After evening
let it rain or not
But the rainy season
will com,e to
convince your
mind.
In butterfly days
who asked the
colourless heron days.
In those colorlessness
let do not be there
a fraction of sign
of your sorrowfulness
to identify not
to required unlimited
symptoms.
Jan 24, 2019
Jan 24, 2019 at 8:38 AM UTC