Deja vu – Sailing

Sailing so close to your shore,

navigating by stars

that fell through dreams,

and burning arcs of light

that spanned the impossible.

 

When first this chart was drawn

I missed them completely,

the sharp rocks and shallows

between my battered boat

and distant orchestras of you.

 

Then it was a fair wind on the sea.

Mermaids danced for me as I set sail.

My canvas swelled like swans

and nothing choked my passage

to your anemone arms,

your oyster thighs.

 

Now,

within reach,

I am scuppered.

 

Throw a rope

or wade out among these salty teeth,

take my prow,

guide me home.

 

photograph and poem by clinock.

Deja vu = edited redux from 2013.

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Ghosts – the flayed

Aching to be clothed

in warm flesh again,

feeling it tight and smooth

against muscle and bone.

Hating this cold nakedness,

exposed to the core.

Waiting beyond time

for another skin to slide across

this osseous frame,

liquid, soft and trembling,

smelling of sun,

a fitting sensuality

once so tenderly touched

by a lover’s hands.

 

It is desires such as these

that binds a spirit

to this physical plane

of sweat and body,

this glistening intimacy.

 

Under the chill September sun

I deadhead the hydrangeas

and geraniums with shining

secateurs.

The withered blossoms fall

into my hand

and soon enough the foliage

will follow, dropping,

brown and wrinkled

onto the palm of earth,

and the garden will become

a murmuration of skeletons

waiting for new growth

to golden on their surfaces.

 

It is not so easy to face

this bone racked spirit in my night.

Its rattling visage is not pretty

and its pleading cries

come howling through my dreams.

 

I peer beneath desires

it breathes,

beneath its mask of dying,

into an endless nightmare

of longing,

reaching to be whole again,

refusing to accept

the flaying of time,

the peeling away

of the surfaces of care,

layer by layer

until there is nowhere else to go

except the beauty of the armature

flying free, released.

 

And you, my haunting,

whipping my heart

with cold filaments of silence.

It hurts, but you are freed now

and covered

by the bleeding veils of love.

 

mixed media painting and poem by clinock

light (angel)

Doors opened in light.

Light arrowed

to winged promises

of flight.

Floating.

Falling.

Rising.

By this illusion of paint

and light

beacons are ignited.

Old desires,

not yet too rained upon

to catch a spark,

burn, fierce flaming

for my remembered

fallen angel.

They are not all

as they appear to be,

the angelic ones.

Some wear paper wings

easily dissolved by tears and time

or ashed by fires of passion.

Some wear cardboard halos,

pinned carelessly to fragrant hair,

creased and crushed by kisses.

She was not at all

as she appeared to be,

my angel.

Her moonlit votive

melted in the sun

blistering the heart

with burning tongues of wax.

Her skin absolved mine

with scents of white lilies.

Her fingertips traced

ecstatic ascensions to heaven.

Her miraculous eyes,

a mirage of turquoise lakes

in an empty desert,

blinded all seeing

like god at high noon.

Photo and poem by clinock.

Uncovered Treasure 3

touched by cold glass

her own hand

twinned and mirrored

in a mudra of longing

searches with fingertips

for her abandoned self

craving for the other

within her image

to appear and confirm

her reflected sensuality

she remains alone

in unconsummated love

her jewelry of solitude

strung from the bones

of an imagined lover

hangs too heavy

and too bright

around her beautiful neck

her eyes, her mouth

her silent words

cry out for relief

but at arm’s length always

she imprisons her desire

safely behind the vitreous veil

 

In a recent mid-winter apartment purge I uncovered a set of 35 mm slides from some mist-enshrouded past era of my life. These photographic images enchant me, as they must have done many moons ago when I originally captured them on slide film.

Not owning a slide projector I scanned them into digital form and looked at them on my laptop. The images were visual poetry to me and words began to form around each one…

This post is the third of a series in which I will share these uncovered visual treasures paired with writings evoked by each slide.

I am also fascinated by the journey of the process these images have gone through over a long period of time. Originally an unknown photographer created an image using a film camera, manipulating and printing it using chemicals in a darkroom. The image was then purchased, photographed a second time and printed in a book where I found it and transformed it into slide film…a photograph of a photograph of a photograph. Using technology that was barely there when I made the slides, I scan the image, another form of photographic reproduction, adding a fourth layer to the process. Perhaps posting the image on WP could be considered a fifth stratum?

No doubt the images have deteriorated in quality as they have traveled through time but I accept this as an intrinsic characteristic of the process. Rather than treat the aging as a defect I prefer to see it as another face of beauty.

 I have no record of the original photographers of these images. If anyone out there recognizes the photographs please let me know and I will immediately add due credit to the artist.

poem by clinock.

Uncovered Treasure 2

a glimpse of Beauty

as She passes by

eye meets eye

in brief eternity

then She is gone

slipping among trees

on iced moonlight

imagined and dispersed

on January winds

I am howling

at the falling sky

tangled in chimes

struggling with metaphor

chilled by promises

of spring

melting on the tongue

just a glimpse

through forest light

chiaroscuro of desire

Her face

already starting

to fragment

falling apart

as Her last glance

like a broken parasol

of mirrors

collapses

leaving Her eyes

charcoaled on papyrus

against the snow

promising everything

and nothing at all

 

In a recent mid-winter apartment purge I uncovered a set of 35 mm slides from some mist-enshrouded past era of my life. These photographic images enchant me, as they must have done many moons ago when I originally captured them on slide film.

Not owning a slide projector I scanned them into digital form and looked at them on my laptop. The images were visual poetry to me and words began to form around each one…

This post is the second of a series in which I will share these uncovered visual treasures paired with writings evoked by each slide.

I am also fascinated by the journey of the process these images have gone through over a long period of time. Originally an unknown photographer created an image using a film camera, manipulating and printing it using chemicals in a darkroom. The image was then purchased, photographed a second time and printed in a book where I found it and transformed it into slide film…a photograph of a photograph of a photograph. Using technology that was barely there when I made the slides, I scan the image, another form of photographic reproduction, adding a fourth layer to the process. Perhaps posting the image on WP could be considered a fifth stratum?

No doubt the images have deteriorated in quality as they have traveled through time but I accept this as an intrinsic characteristic of the process. Rather than treat the aging as a defect I prefer to see it as another face of beauty.

 I have no record of the original photographers of these images. If anyone out there recognizes the photographs please let me know and I will immediately add due credit to the artist.

poem by clinock.

‘The 100’ #93 – Tarot Reading

Afflicted.

Lost in the cloud of unknowing.

Words fogged or missing.

Hidden meanings, unsolved riddles,

outcome uncertain.

The threat of swords summons fear

and a bird’s skull darkens

the clear stars of choice.

Numbers reveal blindness

to the heart’s armor.

Flowing is blocked from the inside,

the river is damned.

Love’s simplicity is tired and tangled

and ghosts veil the light.

But here is the Empress,

birthing The Lovers,

in rivers of beauty.

And here, the Fool,

stepping out into space,

falling in grace once again

with handfuls of hope

and a trembling trust

in the reds of desire

and the blues of a longing

for coming home.

Yielding affects the desired transmutation.

Quiet loving acceptance is the way.

Understanding follows peace.

 

mixed media painting and poem by clinock.

‘The 100′ series was initiated by my 100th Post in April 2012. As text and images are the essence of my blog my intention is to present 100 pieces of text based art from historical and contemporary artists and from my own hand. To view the series to date click on ‘The 100’ in my Category Menu.