Lucy and Ferdinand 3



3

Terrestrial shortcomings
can be like falling ocean winds
on a cold winter day
when polar bears leave the floe,
staring at fading dominion.
Proud is he
destined for the pounding
of storms.

Winter fallout seizes old memories
where old men walk
from cove to endless night
with no thought of cover.
The grand conch shell
whispers of salt.

Drapes of oily illusion
beckon in dark waves motion
where fear goes deep.
The salmon glides gently
from the Sargasso
to river running wild,
to rapids exploited by man.

"I am the Father
of all that I see,
of the land that surrounds me
of all I can be.

I am the Father
with a golden eye
that fathoms all sky
before its time to cry.

I am the Father
of the free seed,
of sad men that bleed
in the face of greed.

I am the Father,
or rather, I am the fool
that believes presence is cool,
that the mind is a tool."

Stable steaming,
a rosy, new born baby
cries in the dark, early hours,
lifts like an island in sea.

Piano keys, stepping stones
into another vision,
curves into a soft adagio,
hums.

Mothers reflect
in mirrors of packed hay,
heavy breasted,
belonging.

"I am the invisible man,
never talking about angels,
or romantic infatuation.
I do not claim to be
anyone other than he
who was elected into likelihood.

Fuck the hypocrites that suckle
with rocks of phony visions.
The unreal turn tales
of the yellow chicken
relies on crooked straws
that seek the egg.

Dream on you vulture
that feeds on echoes
of undead flesh,
congregate and dance
with your silly smiles
and die, just die
never knowing the name
of your rotting shame."


The charcoal finds faces,
rises and falls with dark pigment.
Resilient paper's protest;
it is a continuance.

What can he, the observer, do?
He is active,
he interferes when voices fail,
he makes a response
to ordinary day's reject.

The colors seemed just right,
the feeling when they left the brush
was perfect, just enough resistance,
just enough molding capacity
to perform intention.

Light he created and air,
shapes folded
into images of want.
Now he is a swirling
maelstrom of expression.




Poetry by Bob
Read 595 times
Written on 2011-10-16 at 21:14

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