A Letter to the Other Side

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Go Last

Go Last.

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1/ Don’t Know Why

Don’t know why
after so
Many years,
And after collection
After collection
of haptic verse
laid down
And written in arenas
Of solitude
and midnight silence:
-A decision to make them
Public;
Except perhaps
for the encouragement
Of friends,
Except perhaps,
For a heart rending love,
Except perhaps
For that quiet
and delightful terror
Lately,
That gnaws
contently, consistently,
About my errors,
And moves
The human family
Skeletons
to
Dance.

2/ Heart

Labours during
the day
like,
so many;
And at times
On the road,
And very late at night,
Or in the early dark morning,
In certain breaths,
Come
heart full voluntary deaths
Self inflicted
By outside coming
verse;
And by the music
And sound of words;
Enough deaths
perhaps,
that
at some
unexpected,
But expected
moment,
An aortic arch
May burst
In an
appropriate
conclusion
to the
passion,
ending all illusion;
With a single arrow,
Or many arrows,

And this heart

-leaking

Will Finally
go
Last.

Frida

Frida

imageYou came
Last night
a dark shadow,
As all wandering
Souls do
since Eurydice
In floating cones
and cylinders.
Your presence
Unfelt since
Wandering
The blue walls
And easels
Of your existence,
An
Eye In the place of
The coyotes.
Your flowered
Flowing
Beauty,
A Nocturnal Black
Graced with
hanging
Silver,
Flesh held in place
By rods of steel
And torture,
By the things
That eased your pain:

*Love,

*Pigment,
red as blood
From the back
Of Trotsky’s head
Or from ears cut
by Aztecs warriors,

*Two beds to rest in,

*And your
tiny
Prayerful
Lily white devotions
Crucified on walls,

A Maternal fabric
Behind glass walls
Caged.

A gift sealed in bedrooms.
for certain times.

The cathedrals
And Cortez’s bed
Lie In the place
of Aztec ruins
By your side
In moonlight .

https://m.youtube.com/watch?t=29&v=ou0EOcpdJm4

Poetry Art, the Child

Aside

Poetry , Art the Child

There is a quiet
And exhilarating joy
In poetry or art ,
like a child
born and raised
on page or canvas
waiting to be engaged ,
appreciated ,
waiting to delight ,
to commit
and reflect the
viewer , the reader,
to occupy their mind .
Poetry , art
Is like a child
whose company
is precious
to enjoy ,
and to delight in.
It gives us joy
and a single parting
taste
of the fleeting sweetness
That is life .

From “Eyes of the Artist ” by PWChaltas