Redux September 2011 – Night Dance

night-dance-pastel1

 

Haunted, he wears his ghost lightly.

Woven on phantom air

the dream descends like spent ashes.

 

Singing, with pointed sticks

he marks the wing of the lightning,

 as only a father might do.

 

Entangled in ghost tossed clouds

he follows his fractured dreaming

like a mother’s goodbye.

 

Haunted and enchanted,

he summons the cast of the moon,

the wash and cry of the sea.

 

The borders of sleep are burning.

 

 

Poem and pastel drawing by Clinock

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June Redux 2014 – FIN

In June 2014 this was the final submission of my ‘The 100’ series that I began in 2012 in celebration of my 100th post on WP.

Over a two-year span I posted 100 Text and Art artworks, this creative form being at the heart of my blog.

My intention was to present 100 pieces of text based art from historical and contemporary artists, from my ex students and from my own hand.

With this post it was done

fin_2_3_2

completed, concluded, fulfilled,

finished and finalized.

 

Remember the endings of those romantic,

enigmatic, exotic and erotic

French movies?

~FIN~

fin_2_2

 

Time to put on hats and coats,

shuffle through popcorn detritus and cola cans,

leave the cosy sentiments of make-believe,

the warmth of shared fantasies and holding hands,

the smells of perfume, upholstery and sweat,

and stumble through swinging doors

into the glare and noises of the street,

stunned for a moment, floating between

two worlds,

 uncertain which is real.

 

fin_2

 

art and poem by clinock

October’s face.

October's faceOctober’s face

torn by wet winds

erodes and decays,

entering a deep

and melancholic

sleep.

 

It’s a worn and aging mask

painted with autumn

landscapes,

dreaming of sunflowers

broken by storms,

trees ripped into

spinning kaleidoscopes

of red and gold confetti,

and

tire marks

in the snow.

 

October’s face,

up against the wall of time

disintegrates,

fragments,

descends with the leaves

towards darker days.

 

Its beauty is short

but the fall

is long.

 

poem and photo by clinock (edited redux).

photo: found wall art, Vancouver. Thanks and Credit to unknown artist.

Ghosts – Hungry Ghost

hungrybird

Hungry ghost,

insatiable spirit,

I would free you first

amongst many if I could,

release you from your struggle

for relief and escape,

but you are mired so deep

in your painful longings

I cannot reach you.

 

Hungry ghost,

never satiated,

always searching, wild eyed

for the soothing elixir

that will fill the emptiness inside.

Tasting this and drinking that,

inhaling green and golden brown

mists of pleasure and illusion

to alleviate your loneliness.

 

Hungry ghost,

stripping the beauty of what is

with beaks of desire

to find fulfillment in what isn’t.

Hunting through nature and time

for more than is given.

Feeding on dreams

while the nurture of life waits

untouched around you.

 

Hungry ghost,

I would free me of you

and you of me,

exorcize these cravings

for the imagined, the untrue,

with chants of love

and a final act of will

dissolving these yearnings,

these haunted addictions

into clear mountain water.

 

painting and poem by clinock.

‘The 100’ – # 100. Fin

Fin_2

Done, over, concluded, terminated.

Remember the end of those romantic

French movies? “FIN”,

as in finished and finale.

Fin_2_2

Time to put on coats and hats,

shuffle through popcorn detritus and cola cans,

leave the cosy sentiments of make-believe,

the warmth of shared fantasies and holding hands,

the smells of perfume, upholstery and sweat,

and step through swinging doors

into the glare and noises of the street,

stunned for a moment, floating between

two worlds, not certain which is real.

Fin_2_3_2

Mixed media art and poem by clinock

Thanks Mr. Twain.

 

Friday Haiku

DSC05979_2

searching by moonlight

stumbling through deep shadows

dreamers lose their way

haiku and photography by clinock

Desert Dream

desert_2

I dreamed of a house

in the desert

and outside of the house

I met a being,

neither bird nor beast,

and this entity spoke to me

and asked

“why do you wander

in this burning desolation?”

and I answered

“I don’t know how I came

and have lost my name.”

And this strange creature,

neither beast nor bird,

replied,

“ there is no journey

that you can’t return from

and we all have names

beyond forgetting.”

 

I crouched on hot sand,

uncertain and cold,

and looking my companion

in the eye

asked for direction, clarity

and affirmation.

It pointed its beak

toward a blue and barren tree

and said, in a voice

that seemed to me like wind,

“follow the heart

that beats in your heart,

nurture the tree

until it gives fruit,

then eat.”

 

And I followed the heart

that beats in my heart

and I ate the fruit.

and the desert blossomed

and I am the gardener.

 

Conte drawing and poem by clinock.