"illustrators" poems
We, the people of this country, in your eyes are:
babblers, bachelors, bafflers, baiters, barkers,
beakers, beaters, brawlers, blamers, beggars,
bloaters, bloopers, bombers, boozers, blunders,
bruisers, bafflers, bluffers, burglars and burners.
That's why you feel compelled to keep your foot on our heads
keep us down, put us down, push us down
subjugate us, belittle us, berate us.
We, the people of this country, in our eyes are:
butlers, bouncers, bakers, buyers, barbers,
cake-makers, delivery-takers, cocktail-shakers,
taxi drivers, cancer survivors, employers and hirers,
music makers, entertainers, window washers, foster takers,
plasterers, carpenters, scaffolders, sparks and builders,
boxers, carers, coaches, tailors, shoe makers,
designers, illustrators, multi-language facilitators,
dog walkers, dog trainers, bikers and cycle couriers,
doctors and nurses and all the emergency services.
We are the People, the reason you are where you are now
you sometimes forget that we exist as people, somehow
locked in your ivory towers with gold plated showers
and MP expenses and investment banker pretenses
this is not theater, its real life drama, its not just a bluff
its time to stand up
and say enough is enough.
Jun 27, 2014
Jun 27, 2014 at 9:54 AM UTC
I think it's beautiful
The way your hands are sturdy and calloused
Not the gentle softness illustrators are known for
These hands have felt real art
Built from the ground up
Days of mixing, moulding and texturing
Breathing life into deathly white parchments
I think it's beautiful
The way your arms are slender yet firm
Dusky brown skin holding rippling strong muscles
Strengthened slowly
through years of bullying and soul searching
Their unsymmetrical realness known not
For their harshness
But for the gentle notes they strum
Weaving elegantly with the quiet moving pictures on screens
I think it's beautiful
The way your shoulders always stand strong
A declaration demanding the eyes of every being in sight
Their angled rigidity know to be surprisingly nimble
An immovable pillar for the melting of your body
A constant transformation into unknown characters
The hidden bumps of tired hands
The rough ridges of calloused skin
The angled sharpness of chiseled bones
Hidden works of art
Flitting secretively under the armor you wear
The priviledge of their appearance
But a few can bear
Jun 13, 2017
Jun 13, 2017 at 5:42 AM UTC
Sins of the father,
Wrought perfection among the world,
In ways I feel farther,
From where the rest unfurled,
Colors are more vivid,
Life is now peak experience,
The people are livid,
But men will take chances,
Among rolling hills,
And steep cliffs,
Into the nine hells,
Just to procure these gifts,
To create the song of progress,
And sing it from their peaks,
Where parasites arrest,
But with knives and leeches the hosts will leak.
The sunlight warms our skin,
And generates life,
And blights are gems we force to glint,
The straightest of diamonds are forged in strife,
Cut in sharp language,
Originating in the furnace of others,
Whether in joy or anguish,
The culmination of lovers,
The poets of life,
The artists of death,
Photographers of honor,
And authors of theft,
The illustrators of ethics,
Profanity’s architects,
Gaia’s ventriloquists,
And the firstborn’s defects.
Formulated impressions have no need to advance,
The darkness of these times,
Warrant no more than slight glance,
If mimes have nothing to say,
We’ll burn the sky as they dance.
This is the letter home from the warrior,
And the drunken hubris of a poet,
The weathered steps of the courier,
And those he had met in his journey,
Whether or not they knew it.
Dec 25, 2012
Dec 25, 2012 at 2:12 AM UTC
I never look at a blank page for too long,
Same goes for facing a blank wall,
it seems to be always missing something.
A photo, a picture, and most of all memories.
When I was a child the same goes with my readers
without those colorful photos, I wasn't
contented with reading the book.
I must have read The House that was up sided down"
More than a dozen times, love how the illustrators
Mind-expanding illustrations, vocabulary or concepts
had capture my growing mind at a early age.
Today my mind, doesn’t go for the illustrations,
But it can capture poetic details about life,
And the subject matters: as they come to surface,
When it comes at me in the mirror,
It's not me staring back, but a poet,
A modern free verse kind of poet,
Or would we say a Amazon online shopper,
Instead of a walk-in stores browser
Who see from the rearview of her eyeglasses,
The brothers, I have known them that for the past
Twenty-three years, not on a personal level,
But by observing those two as individual characters,
One was a war vet, the other a computer tech,
One with some post-traumatic stress disorder,
The other like no other, had a Smoking Marijuana Fixation:
Most likely contribute to his cancer, which lead up to his death,
The other brother, is still here with us,
Hanging around in the lobby, making weird sound
And ****** expression, of a deranging war vet,
We must never assume, who is healthier and who is not.
Because death is a divider, a time stopper,
And unapologetic, defiant Donald Trump of times
At times, I also can be unapologetic
I owes you nothing, I owes you nothing,
I see nothing, I hear nothing, and I am the free verse
Of my daily writing, without rules, without your approval,
or even riding my bike without a helmet.
Or walking the street of Brooklyn without protection.
Oct 11, 2021
Oct 11, 2021 at 9:38 AM UTC
In the hands of authors,
we are characters.
In the hands of illustrators,
we are imperfections to be fixed.
We people
Controlled by rulers,
modeled by peers,
"perfect" behavior by elders
never ourselves
We people
We people
need creativity
need reality
need freedom
need to be ourselves
There is no author
no illustrator
We are real
and free!
We do our will
not theirs
You write your own story
Feb 22, 2014
Feb 22, 2014 at 8:45 PM UTC