Van Gogh

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Van Gogh

Van Gogh

Van Gogh
looked at the sky
and the world
through water.
He painted
night or day,
self portraits of
swirling blue
formed
by the eddies
of wind on water .
His work,
like star light
on the water ,
reflected
through
the flowing liquid
of his eyes
and soul . .

From “Eyes of the Artist” by PWChaltas

Endymion Song

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Moon Lust

Endymion Song

The moon
is a group
of bright white
cross hatched
chevrons in blackened water,
like the shine
of sweat
that glistens
between
a woman’s
breasts.
A finger print
sings to me
sweetly.
In pure white.
it greets me
and comes
ever closer,
entreats me,
to look past
the milky glow
on the water’s
naked, dark
and navy flesh,
far past the horizon,
up to the
hanging
pendant laughing
in the evening sky ..

From “No Subject Here Just Light” by PWChaltas

Child Behind the Curtains Watching Rain

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Child Behind the Curtains Watching Rain

Photo credit : charmingthebirdsfromthetrees.blogspot.com

Child Behind the Curtains
Watching Rain

A small child
In a double breasted
velvet vest
with four
mother of pearl buttons
and in shorts,
Is eating almonds
behind the curtain.
He leans his
chin on the window sill.
He watches the
rain falling from the sky
landing In shiny
wet and dancing greyness
in hopping drops
and ringlets
on the surface of the asphalt
and in tiny bubbles
siting on
the blades of grass.
all so wonderful
and new .
He knows that
just a short walk away
there is a whole lake
of this stuff,
much bigger than
the puddles
forming in the street ..
He cracks the almonds
In his mouth vertically
at their seams in two
as the smooth surface
of their polished
marble insides
slide and fall down
either side of his tongue
to be crushed
into delicious ground
almond paste
that he swallows.
Why does it rain he thought.
It’s so beautiful and so sad
and I love to
watch it from this window.

The clouds part,
the sun comes out
and the child’s
tall thin Mother
with her falling
raven tresses
comes to part
the curtains
In her long
and shining
silver robe.
She finds him there .
He smiles and laughs
and looks up
at his mother.
The round orb
of the sun reflects
on the clear
and shining glass
In the rectangular
window,
that’s now full
of new lines
and gradations
of other
outside reflections,
As the room fills up
with bright 60’s sunlight,
the child knows
the solitude,
the almonds,
and the rain
are now
all gone away .

The Book

The Book

He spoke from within his sadness and regret .Was it too late? His wisdom could not save himas his father’s Faith and Humility had .After all his father had known glory but also knew blood and death .His father had been humbled and suffered torments and regret earlier in his life .He had been betrayed and judged by men and women ,even friends and servants .He suffered greatly and clung to his faith to save himself from drowning in his own tears .His father’s plate was a constant battle sustained by faith ,repentance and humility .The son knew now of himself,
that he had been imperfectly born .He had lived his life in glory, building, with little suffering. He had judged many, and now late in life realized that he had been lead astray by ease and wealth , by so many different perfumed charms and whispers. Defeated and weakened by his own power he realizes those few first stray steps have lead him so far away, and that it is such a long journey back now, in light that has grown very dim . He speaks pearls of wisdom for willing ears :
“Remove from me vanity and lies. Give me neither poverty or riches
Feed me with food convenient for me lest I be full and say: ” Who is the Lord ” or lest I be poor and steal and take the name of the Lord in vain” ****
“A good name Is better than precious ointment ; And the day of death is better than the day of oneʼs birth . It is better to go to the house of mourning , than to go to the house of feasting :
for that is the end of all and the living will lay it to heart . Sorrow is better than laughter: for by sadness of the countenance the heart is made better . The heart of the wise is in the house of mourning but the heart of fools is in the house of mirth” ***
***Ecclesiates 7 2/4 ****Proverbs 30 8/9

Perfect Silence

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Perfect Silence

Perfect Silence

The monstrosity
Of man made machines
Violates a perfect
Silence .
Nature is spoiled .
Peace disconnected .
The servants must

have their masters
and The Masters must have
their due.

The time is made for killing
and kill is
what we do .
There’s no time left
to hear our breathing
or feel souls intact
and made whole .
No time left
for given mercies .
It’s the taking that we
must do.
And so our meditations
are flat
our hearts still and frozen ,
turning shades of blue .

We all simply
must continue
and do
what we must do

We prey
for the perfect silence
of simple aggregates ,
to come once again :
Those that we gather
all on our own alone
stone by single stone
and those gathered together
that are thrown
upon us both
by handful
and by a final spade .
Thus is the silence made .

How about It’s Coming

How about It’s Coming

It’s coming
In double 4’s
Not much I can do
But really  live
till time runs out .
How about
You ?
Going to be here
till the black
Canary sings ?

So I walk
and walk
and walk
and i enjoy it.
Feet to the ground
Eyes on the sun
and the stars .
I choose
To be
This way ,
and walk away
Into horizons .
How about you Lady ?
How about you Bud ?
How about you son ?
How about you sweets ?
How about you Love?

Andalusian Song

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Song of Andalusia
rolling over hills
and mountains
to Granada,
breaking light of
madrugada
first in Seville,
and among
the solitary palms
of Algeciras.
Moonlit gutteral cry
deep from
belly of
of Gypsy, Arab, Jew,
a slow arrival from
Cordoba and Cadiz,
a fusion casting Spain,
a song that revives
the sleeping dead,
resounding deep throughout
the useless times,
over plains and night.
Strains of exile, pain,
longing and disgrace
are peering out from black
and lovely eyes
of lover’s face.
Somewhere Lorca
Is lurking in the moist
and creeping soil
lost in his duende,
tasting the
sweetened sadness
of the deep song
and now
inside it.
It no longer needs
to be inside him,
except in written words
on the white
and spread out spaces.
Hands like graceful
birds are flying round the fire
In the forgotten places.
The hungered Gypsys and
Gitanos dance
and sing deep down
from the well,
like flowing water
around the burning flames,
Proud heels are beating
into dust
and flattened earth,
waking passions of the dead .
Guitarras strum
and
soundless claps of hands
burn deep Into the palms
of Moorish lovers arms,
lost In the embrace
of black duende.

From “Free Verse in Useless Times ” by PWChaltas