Truths

Truths

I hope to have
written some truths.

Lies are so easy.
To pen

To be able
To record some truths
in the future !
That is difficult;

Lies are so obvious,
Not always cheap.

Easy, convenient,
Unexamined conclusions
Of the times.

Truths are not always so obvious.
Some take years
To ascertain
In the dark.
That’s why the best poets
Age, get so old,
With deep lines
in their foreheads,
or die so very young.
Some truths are never
to be,
cannot be,
known;
And only are present
in vague outlines,
In muted colours
Of the partly blind;
Only lightly,
Randomly,
Occasionally,
touched on.

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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

 

Van Gogh Watches Volleyball

Image

van-gogh-self

Van Gogh Watches Volleyball

Van Gogh
Is lounging at
his waterside table
drinking beer
with
a Mickey mouse tattoo
set on his shoulder.
The piercing stare
of his green eyes
turned blue
focuses on the
volleyball game
playing out
before him .
The water is
a deep, deep blue
sourced
directly
from
his eyes .
His tantrum
tank top is
a delirious ultramarine
as if squeezed out
in a rounded
sharp edged
dollop
from a artist’s tube
on to his palette .
He seems quite sane
here
all in all
as he moves his head
only slightly
to the music,
drinks,
and enjoys the game.

No crows are flying here.
He’s just intense,
alone.
Perhaps looking
for ear lopping
companionship .
He stares at passing girls.
His eyes are burning
with an intense
cool blue flame .
His short hair
and tight cropped beard
finish
off a look that
brands him,
the tortured genius.
He reminds me of my
cousin ,
long departed.
He too
alone at times
was
always
loved by children,
in awe of nature,
seeking companionship
and kinship .

A talented painter
in pastels and in oils
of ancient Greek warriors,
some times Spartacus,
or landscapes ,
his eyes often said:
Old man look
at my life.
He died a much
too young
death
like Van Gogh.

Van Gogh reminds
me too
of Kirk Douglas
especially
in the movie
Spartacus .
Douglas was a man
of incalculable
passion and
intense verve .
Van Gogh could
have been a
Spartacus in the
Arles arena
had be been born
earlier
and in the circumstances of
a Gladiator,
rather than a painter .
He would have
excelled
and lopped off ears
in shows of mercy
to win his freedom.
Van Gogh
has now suddenly
disappeared
into the thin nostalgic air.
He must have dashed
out madly.
His table with empty
Heineken bottle is
left blank,
blank
as an empty
white canvas .
The
abscess
in his absence
left behind
is black,
black as the crows
that devoured him
so long ago.

From “The Black and other Base Elements” by PWChaltas

Van Gogh

Image

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