Shed skins of paintings
peeled from abandoned palettes.
A playground for ghosts.
Photo and haiku by Clinock
edited redux – 2014
ghosts
Siena Ghost
Inquisitive ghost
haunting bright Siena day
with curtained glances
Photo and haiku by Clinock
Ghost Ride
Sometimes,
in this season
of dying and farewells,
even the broken,
the rusted,
the rejected
are touched by magic,
garlanded in lights
and flowers,
resurrected
and honoured
among fallen leaves.
Hereabouts
autumn ghosts
still peddle summer,
wheeling and whistling
through
the tenuous sunlight
of October streets.
Photo and Poem by Clinock
Sept 2014 – Ghosts – Joan of Arc
Seeking sanctuary from the burn
I trespass her ice and holy dance
and am caught, unmasked,
between flaming carapace and tundric flesh.
She rises with a purer love
in fiery blizzards I cannot name,
consuming me in smoldering tears
by which I navigate her bright beauty.
There are red mysteries in her conflagration
binding me with smoking tongues,
releasing me in blinding light,
fusing me forever to this silent ghost of ash and passion.
Painting and Poem by Clinock
Redux September 2011 – Night Dance
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
May Redux – 2013 – Dreams For Sale
Walking a city afternoon I made this photo through the window of an antique store.
I continued to gaze, fascinated by my reflection superimposed on the bed. It was as if I was laying down and drifting with the ghosts of all who had ever slept, dreamed, loved, laughed and cried, been born and died there, tangled in baroque light.
I was moved to free us from all this sleeping around.
Above, but out of the frame, was a sign in antiquarian lettering.
It said ‘Dreams For Sale’.
ghosts cannot rest
in this dislocated bed
perplexed by labyrinths of iron
and the endless touch of the living
their spines and cheeks
never crease the haunted sheets and pillows
outside looking in I’m inside looking out
whispering to the reflected dead
you are loved and you are loved
and you are free
Walk on
Photo and Poem by clinock.
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