The Template

The crossword
is not born a puzzle,
it is but a template
yet filled as whole

Its pattern is born undetermined,
a fossil of a form,
pliable yet void of clues
to hint at the truth
of its undiscovered
internal code

It lives within a womb
alive yet bare-still
connected to the page
by an umbilical destiny
it's yet to claim as its own

A design in search of order
A destiny whose fate's determined
only by the characters etched by the
pencil's shade

The crossword
is not born a puzzle,
it is but a template
with desires all its own

Its every cell is born with a multitude of purpose
Its outline, a skeleton unable to communicate on its own

It searches for the perfect
words to imprint meaning,
that completes the voids crafted by space and time

It is alive, yet it will not know why
until its hollow frame is complete with a
perfect built in verse.

Days of Earth and Stone

On the fields of battle, forward vision is a blur.  The only clarity comes through the reflections of the weapons we wield.  Therein, we witness the damage we've done this day.

Day or night, the darkness will distort one's truth.  Through our weapons, the carnage we've caused, shines brighter than the nightmares in each our every pause

Approaching new terrain, we will not feel the frigid air.  We will only march onwards as our directives are detailed.  If we glance within our blades, a different scene paints the fields  last known

In the end, time will claim both man and deadly steel.  Many moons will keep our victories and losses relegated to the words of passers-down.  Some day though, our remains, both bone and steel, will be found and claimed.  Many thoughts may arise, how deadly blades fare the least well of all.  They grow brittle as the ground it rests within.  Makes one wonder why the sieging every stirred, if any side truly won, such a war that only ends in dirt and stone.

The Realm Where Nightmares Keep

Beyond these walls
a pristine silence
envelops the earthen field

yet within the caverns of dream
this purity bears no witness
to the ravaging of sleep's seams

Portent etchings carve the dark veil

Transportation.  To a world unknown.
One that looks enticing from beyond
bear hellfire to those within

Ominous clouds enshroud above
pathways are in absentia
forcing the feet to maneuver through

Carnage is painted by some marauding pen
Scrawling image to the scry
Infusing agony within the eyes

Skeletal remains litter the field
I dare not search the wreckage

You know they are inside
burning still
yet, what could you do
really, herein this dark reflection,
what good could come

Overstepping burnt passage
Inhaling the toxicity it seeps
realizing
the scenic reminder
will never be
the same


One day perhaps my evening visions will be pastel rabbits and clover greens, but until such a day assumes the dream, the nightmares bleed their darkened screams.

Stop by the NWCU where for this weeks Wednesday Wake Up Call, Natasha gives us a really great prompt, night time, however we may find.  So stop on over, take in the prompt and check out those who've already linked up, which, by the way, all very good.  Take it all in and if inspired, which I'm pretty sure you will be, compose your inspiration as you may, link it up for other's to enjoy.  And while you're there, take a gander at all the excellent articles and offerings within the NWCU.

Frozen Features of Scenes Unsaid

Ice floes
stumble

Islets
suffer
the hoar

Driest ground
grows inward
at the premonition
in the sand

Tides flash
in directions
frozen up
above the
facets of imagination
swimming deep
below the cold
physique of scenes
unsaid

Starry Night (For Creative Tuesdays)

Another Creative Tuesday is upon us, and for this week, MR. T proposed the theme of Starry Night.  Definitely, if anyone reading here hasn't already done so, please stop by to Creative Tuesday. You'll find some incredibly talented artists, each offering unique views and styles.

For me, CT is an opportunity to fine tune the work I do.  Normally I sit down, splatter a bunch of paint on the canvas and go crazy with the knife until something emerges.  While I love working  abstractly, what CT provides for me, is an opportunity to sit down with a theme in hand.  Here I can hone my process accordingly. Not to mention being able to see how the others approached the same theme.

Anyhow, stop by, you'll love it.


So, back to the current week.  The theme, as mentioned earlier, is Starry Night.  I have to admit, I didn't really know what I would do at first.  The famous painting came to mind, but I didn't really know where I would go with that.  Then, I saw this commercial, through the Tivo, as I don't actually watch commercials anymore, and there was this kid with a telescope. This was the impetus for this piece.

I envisioned a hill at midnight as a meteor fell to earth.  Then, I had to work in the Stars, as this theme is Starry Night not Meteor Night. So, I added the tiny stars and the telescope, which I actually forgot at first.

Then another spark formed.  I was tidying it up just as my sister came over with my nieces. Suddenly I saw these tiny stars as children out at play.  The idea of the parents came next and the brief poem followed.

Normally I wouldn't lay out the exact process of a piece. I do talk about them, as I'm sure you've gathered by now, but I don't like to ruin the interpretative process, so I cut it short somewhat. With this one being straight forward though, I thought I'd actually lay it all out there.

Unsteadied Currents

listen to ‘Unsteadied Currents’ on Audioboo

Shoulders roll as thoughts contour

the landscape of its architecture.

The mind escapes the flaws and quakes

as crested embankments redden each stream of space.

With lost horizons stained askew, welled inside are

veils obscured; torturous to touch, the vesicle reveals.

As the truth turns stern, waves discern,

forever redirecting the crutch; an expanding frame,

broken, from the inside out; unsteadies

as the vein distorts its portrait born.

Voltage passes through minds-eye, where

escaping thoughts infect all they flutter to.

A passive surge, disrupts then sears; the shade

its silhouette suffers from. 

Inhibition blocks cognition. Suffocating ‘til the twitch is gone.

Neon Haze (Surround/Expand)

listen to ‘Neon Haze (Surround/Expand)’ on Audioboo

I covet thee my sweetest princess
Your locks endow this memory
with the most brilliant of salvations

The haze of your embodiment
shades me in rapture

The euphoria in your ether
expands the individuation of history
into a neon gaze that's harboring our direction

Instinctively your enigma
hovers free, caressing the
incandescence of my dreams

Emotions feast upon
the tendrils of imagination
swaying each atomic particle
into unities never yet explored

An aromatic magnificence,
swirls about your midnight's grace
transcending Jupiter's ghost,
with the phantasms swarming thin

Tingling are the bitten sparks
of those porous remembrances
born within

Your most precious of whispers
replenish all vitalities stolen
by maelstrom's approaching tide

You sacrifice everything,
You robe these shoulders
and foster identities unto those unknown

With the most illustrious
devotions man has never seen,
you comfort me, sating me fully

Take hold me here and please promise
never to secede from the chambers
of my all too often vacancy

I covet thee my sweetest princess
more than mortal men could ever know

A Windstorm of Velocity

Colors shifting focus,
in and out, up to down
swirl to swirl, blends to curl,
sharp and changing,
palettes a blur,
a windstorm striking
each brushstroke, just
as the inspiration for
design is invoked
and each hue
kindly, softly,
not so gently,
spoke and spoke.

A Quilt with Scowled Sails

Response I:

cross-cut of vision:
an error applied upon
culture's medium

Response II.

The variant pause
through seas of writhing promise,
unveils caustic poise

Response III-

Coinciding gaps
bounding folds of direction
spanning acute form

Response IV_

Geometry's range
of lauded adoration,
shaping folds of time

Response V

Confusion grown stale
sears the forlorn effigy
misshapenly sized

Ancestral Blood

Often do we embark on sojourns within,
dwelling thoughts upon those ne'er met,
where the blood refrain is identical to
what floe's haunt the veins in you.

Thoughtful essays prayed internal, traverse
history's tapestried veils, forging connections
you never new existed there…

Here we remember what we never could, dream in
memories never owned, hearing sounds-the whispers,
the elations and the moans-resonating as if was your drums
these initials melodies made aware

Staring intently upon a solitary object, perhaps a cracked tile or
a chipping of the ceiling's paint, comatose in nature you invoke the
hopes and dreams to which you and your ancestors shared…forging
a connection that no skeptic could dare understand, yet, freely you do beg your sires past, how the sacrifices they bestowed, today honor your purveyance, to each these relatives a kinship is born, to each, a thankful melody is hummed both calm and free, but it is the passion of remembrance that is owed, and in such gravities, your true inheritance here is shown….

Here, before the trance returns, you welcome the future, to eat upon your misery, to learn from each mistake you've made, to profit from your wisdom, a wisdom you let waste in grave, and pray, it is your smile they hold dearest through their most detrimental of days….


Stop on over to New World Creative Union, where, on this Halloween, they ask us to look back upon our ancestry and to pay credence to what their lives to you, this day, mean.

Pastel Afterglow

The pastel afterglow
momentarily
inhibits recognition;
distorting memory
of which caste of
town your flesh
currently walks
within.

Outlets for Angst

“I’m a gangster,” Vito claims

just to douse that extra hope

away from his parents dream

“I set fires,” Dory does, watching

the flames build to voluminous peaks,

as the waters rage their violent breath,

to comfort the bystanders seek, yet never

move, not here, not now, loving the warmth

when the air’s far too cool

“I pick fights with strangers,” an unknown teen

says, “usually their much bigger than me, but it

makes no difference, as I don’t fight back, I won’t push back, it’s never been about none of that….instead, I want

to see, how bad they’ll beat me down, before they realize who

they are, in that moment, when kickback stands still.”

“I cut myself,” Oliver reveals, if only to regain the sense to feel.

Crows muster above the heads, like vultures do, but not as patient, hovering the carrion as it still walks, entrails and all…for it’s in their eyes…the future knows.

"Why so bleak, why so down, why so embarrassed, what's with that frown…how'd you expect to…do you even care…are you aware," YES.

Stop on over to the NewWorldCreativeUnion for their Weekly Wednesday Wake Up Call.  It's always a fun prompt and almost always exhilarates the creative sense.  This week Leslie Moon has offered a really atmospheric video, accompanied with the Haunting Violin of Max Ablitzer for our consumption.  She then goes on to tease us with thoughts of Poe.  Wasn't sure what direction this piece would manifest itself, but I simply let it go where the melody and scenery took me.  And then since I put this up on this blog, I accompanied it with a darker painting I'd yet to post.  Definitely check out all the NWCU does for the artistic community, not just poetry and Art, but all of it, literally.  And hey, join in, your more than welcome. 

The Union of Vine to Earth

The earth
met the
leaves,
and arms
were joined
together, where
they hid each
other within the
other

Secrets grew
aligned, inseparable
they became, setting
future's only able
to singularly coincide

Paths begin where
trails end.  Arms extend
when the body needs
a friend.  Warmth of growth
extending past nature's bark,
commingling forever,
for in the other
exists the others life

An Invocation Of Angels

The Devil will have his day
some, may argue he's had
quite a few

The harp strings shall pluck
once more, lest, it will be
the demons that we answer for

Many mythologies speak of such a
final act…the Norse call it Ragnarok
where the wolf devours Odin, the
leader of their Gods

For Catholics, as the beasts walk the streets,
the devout should keep their windows closed
until the howling stops, and a light breaks out,
filling the sky with a blinding warmth, where,
once sight's regained, Mary will be, standing tall
above this brilliant day, as the serpent's skull
is crushed beneath the might of our Mother's foot

These are but two, of the many, possibilities,
all illustrating the same thing, an ending that begets
a beginning new

But until such time
our world produces
scars quite deep,
purging hell unto our
streets, devouring the
innocent and raising the
dead

Demons crawl the horizon line,
blocking out the sun and sky,
yet
today…I've invoked
the Angels to fly, to
soar fierce and stave
out these devils, until
it's time for the
end of games

Unsettled (Beginnings and Transitioning)

Unsettled
beginnings bare
yet reactive to unknown
stimuli

As contrast enters
the drawing room floor
the beginnings are no more…askew
yet
unsettled still

Butterfly Effective

sentimentally inert
with affections toward butterflies,
even moths

rest, predictably effecting,
the ladders of time

as weeks merge into
one day (light)

spaces beams
intricately,

though
it's pattern of designs,
often go unseen

to all variables in each
fragmentation of scenery

Sparse reception,
scantily clad,
amidst the nets cast unto
methodologies unveiled

organically, naturalistically,
the skeptic must
reconsider his orientation

One small differentiation, a brushing,
a daub, a touch…

Unto nothing

yet, this nothing
is about to
alter everything

For Wednesday Wake Up Call over at New World Creative Union, where Natasha prompts us to think of, and to become inspired by, the butterflies that capture our creative eyes.

Fear Of Failure (Wednesday Wake Up Call)

No matter how hard w try
we are never alone

No matter the distance
a shadow's always cast

Buried deep within
the fear resurrects again

Only to find out once more,
It fares no chance
when talent's light is preserved



Over at the New World Creative Union, Natasha presents this week's Wednesday Wake Up Call with the theme of "Fear of Failure."  Head on over to feel the creativity stir and get inspired.

Fortification of

Every sentiment

Aligned in

Ragged fashion

Omniscient voiceover scrawls the mind—

From distances travelled—from sky to cloudy locale

Fretting won’t get you squat; fretting won’t get you

Anywhere, it can and often does, proliferate the overwhelming

Instances that allow stagnancy

Life.  We might regret the inactivity, but if the mind is

Unusually ripe with fear, our ability to succeed is half buried and

Repertoire is likely overwhelmed, unless we can brim confidence,

Each and everyday, it’ll be déjà vu, counter-intuitive at every beat

Fear, the dusty fleck

Flirtatiously offering

Failure, your domain

Etchings of a Frozen Recreation

So generous
offering itself
entirely, to
young and
old alike,
providing
sanctuary
in those sliding
motions-

foot glides on leather
laced tight top the
bridgework bone-

leather connects to
blade-where in
concert, movements
lather in streaks and
glances, etching
frozen layers thin

and in this peaceful
repetition, the mind-
expands-wrapping thought
in topical individualities

yet, when legs tire  or
temperature sinks well
below breathable depths,
the blades are removed
and the voices dim
until
all that remains
are the scars
recreation layers- remixing
the landscape-and
frozen leaves the art