Shape shifter,
Sometimes winged,
Sometimes four legged.
Woman, man, fish, amoeba,
Bone and card reader,
Weaver of dreams,
Midwife and mortician,
Magician and Fool.
Beyond right and wrong,
Always and forever
He is deeply here
At the pulsing center
Of my life,
And I dance his mystery
Into drumming kaleidoscopes
Of wonder.
Art and Poem by Clinock.
Sculpture: Shaman, by Clinock. H. 13″ x W. 5″ x D. 5″. Fired and stained clay.
sometimes, even
in the season
of dying and farewells
the broken,
the rusted,
the rejected
are touched by magic,
resurrected,
garlanded in lights
and flowers,
transmogrified
and honoured
as fallen leaves
and a tenuous sun
ride summer memories
through October streets.
photo and poem by clinock.
Click on photo for superior viewing experience.
Full moon rising,
your red dress ripped,
my arms and legs torn
by brambles,
cyphers of blood
writing our story.
Deep orange
flooding through veins.
Volcanic passage
erupting
across forests
in which we lay down.
Lunatics,
our bodies gone,
lost to the full moon,
unable to breath,
struggling
to hold on to us.
Deep power
pouring from night.
The stars are singing
through our reaching flesh
as we touch
the trembling sky.
We are lost
with the lost moths,
battering their wings
against the burning
illusion
of eternal light.
Moon image courtesy of Google Images. / Poem by clinock.
Isis
goddess
burning desire
fecund magic flames
igniting life’s passion
as over and over
she conjures
surrender
wonder
love
we are
her eggs
her fruitful
full ripe bodies
fertile gardens of longing
surfaces penetrating sighing depths
parting hidden veils of loving
exploring moist heat
soft caverns of fire
exiting
entering
closing
opening
opening more
inviting us to dance
this waltz of birth and death and love
again and again and again
in blood and tears
and laughter
our shells
slowly
dissolving
into
rounded arcs
of light
acrylic mixed media painting and poem by clinock.
broken in the rain,
repair is complicated
and plans misplaced.
all parts are fallen,
sanguine and separated,
vulnerable to rust.
solitary fragments
wait for the miracle
of reattachment.
magic craves time,
sacrifice and surrender
to reanimate
this static wreckage
that still pulsates with dreaming,
and magic must be fed.
drawing and poem by clinock.
in the waiting room
you might observe
that we lack what might be termed
Modern Conveniences
our dimension is
carved from space and decorated with
intimate meanderings
of images and breath
this is enough to satisfy our present needs
and as we wait
we pass the time
by thinking, imagining, postulating,
slowly opening
each and every door
to each and every possibility of thought
but only time
will tell
“Given the existence as uttered forth in the public works of Puncher and Wattmann of a personal God quaquaquaqua with white beard quaquaquaqua outside time without extension who from the heights of divine apathia divine athambia divine aphasia loves us dearly with some exceptions for reasons unknown but time will tell……………………………”
‘The 100′ series was initiated by my 100th Post in April 2012. As text and images are the essence of my blog I will post 100 pieces of textual 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.
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