Ghosts – silence

An investigation for jesters

and saints,

this sadness of a man,

this separated ghost,

this disconnected stare

in brittle glass,

unrecognized reflection

of nothing known

in this frozen liquid sand,

pinned to a drawing board,

crucified

in clouds of calendars

and an ambiance

of echoing silence.

 

Ghost of a ghost

exiled from connection

to all familiar senses,

wandering lost

in a papier-mache world

filled with mute puppets

and the creeping feet of madness

drifting on autumn leaves,

the dumb changing of seasons

and the cold winds to come.

 

There was a voice once

filling days and nights,

sweet ectoplasms of love

buried now in the heavy quiet

of collapsing bridges

and the broken entities of light.

 

There was a precious presence

partnering in mirrors,

a twinning wholeness

held gently in his hands,

now crumbling into dust

and blown on September winds

across a face

that is a stranger to itself.

 

There was music and whispers

tongued and lipped

across vibrating cells,

songs of angels and dreamers

gagged now and gone,

leaving a face alone

to face itself,

a double haunting.

ex silentio.

 

 

self-portrait drawing and poem by clinock.

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dark (leaving)

slipping quietly away

it took so long

the leaving

mute as shadows

step by quiet step by

tiptoed second

the slow disappearing

barely noticeable

the slow increments

of separation

the widening chasm

the darkening distance

between the leaving

and the left

the left behind

the wreckage

 the stripped bones

the abandoned child

the sheets of insomnia

the barbed and broken

understanding

slipping quietly away

taking nothing

leaving everything

to the silent drifts of night

drawing and poem by clinock.

‘The 100’ #81 – Struck by the Stick of Understanding

struck by the stick of understanding

he emerges from a dream of light

into an even brighter realm with

brittle edges and elusive shade,

blinding in its clarity,

merciless in its glare.

 

his dream was all soft shadows

compared to this

unbearable,

hard,

shining,

in which he cannot

breathe or think or see,

and everything believed before

becomes illusion.

 

turning from this sharp veracity,

retreating back to dappled sleep

he drifts through sensual clouds,

trailing sanity but home again,

beyond his understanding,

to smoky skies of love.

 

art and poem by clinock.

art: acrylic and mixed media (based on a sketch for ‘Dual’). Click on image for best view.

‘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 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.