Tag Archives: poetry

two forks #1 – Lois E. Linkens

Staggering piece by Lois E. Linkens

“Once I met a fork in that craggy road,

And it did two bold options so present –

Two ways in which to go, with choice proceed

Across the scanty plains of life and breath.

One was easy. Simple love for concrete minds

As was solid writ, to nakedness combine

And so become a woman in the truest sense.

Like that! I’d live by Eden’s face and hence

Would bat all questions to our bodied stance”….

https://loislinks.wordpress.com/2018/10/02/two-forks-1/

Art by Dan Hillier.

The Laughing Heart

“your life is your life
don’t let it be clubbed into dank submission.
be on the watch.
there are ways out.
there is light somewhere.
it may not be much light but
it beats the darkness.”
Charles Bukowski, The Laughing Heart

Art by Thomas Cooper Gotch.

Montresor/Down Vaults – Basilike Pappa

The trembling of a rose by the audacious and talented Basilike Pappa

“Since I was born

I’ve been a point definitely settled

(Roses are eaten fragrant)”…

Read more of her beyond-amazing words: suddendenouement.com/2018/09/10/montresor-down-vaults.

Pilferer of Thorns – Iulia Halatz

My latest poem on Sudden Denouement:

https://suddendenouement.com/2018/07/13/pilferer-of-thorns-iulia-halatz/

There comes a day
when gaiety
and ruling stars
are not enough…
Yet I plunge into
the satisfaction of
hologram happiness.

I am slave no more
to my self-deprecation
I am slave no more
to the pilgrimage of water
and the tiny gem of a moon
witness to
all my erroneous choices…

My skin is scaly
and cold
I do not fit
this shifting sands world
I believe in landslides…

A half mermaid
and half tree goddess
can lead
a turbulent sun-ridden dominion
to the end
of want and pain.

We are prisoners
to promiscuous light
and innocent dark
enlivened by fair-featured
butterflies caught in
a smock of diffuse glint…
They loved the light
and died.

The core of the day
envisions what
lies above
the acme of temerity:
undiscovered
undeciphered
unfathomable
festering
Glee…
I keep it under
layers of boiling
lava
and grope for it
with bare hands.

With burned fingers
and asbestos hearts
We receive response
from the insouciant night:
the indigo skies glimmered
with stars
and the trees and grasses
slaving
for the summer wind.

© Iulia Halatz

Art by Marcela Bolivar.

I am delighted that five of my poems were included in the Sudden Denouement Anthology Volume I. The anthology is now available on Amazon.com and Amazon.co.uk.

Buried moon

Buried moon, buried moon
Who to talk about at noon
When dreams are plundered by light
And powdered in gold and charcoal dust.

Crescent fairies are sad in the rouse
and at falter to surmise
the scanty slumbering traces
that led stupors into trenches.

The owners of the light
Do not know its might
and the pleasure of the sun
to astound and burn above…

Buried moon, buried moon
I want you soon…

As to play my feral dreams
around the all surviving tunes!

 

(Reposting an old poem)

Art – Buried moon by Edmund Dulac.

Sun chokes the atmosphere

Sun chokes the atmosphere
Moon dies and takes
the truth and breath of you
Stars inscribe the sky
and determine
who’s alive…
What are your dreams?
Ask your heart
and put an old wish
to the slaughter.

Wild is the conspicuous green grass
that tells itself
to reach the stardust smell of spring.
Old is the key
that keeps away the chains
and charms unfathomed
to open a new gate
As you wear another’s
beating heart
melting in
and dripping of blue lust
Not knowing when
to destroy the dark
and say:
I am saving the meat
of my dreams for you!

 

Art by Konstantin Koborov.

What is your word?

If you were to be enclosed in one word, what would that be?
We are already enclosed in small words, small events, small thoughts making up a bigger picture. But what if you respond to only one word?

My word is freedom. I know of nobody being free, but in our world populated with clouds that sweep away the silence of the sky above blue lilacs of amaranthine Spring, I am free. My freedom is but at the words’ length of a magic rub of the lamp of imagination.

Without freedom we cannot feel the wind’s promiscuous touch as if at ripe flowers and leaves, without freedom we cannot be as young as yesteryear’s roses. We cannot see the Autumn climbing up the vines and the heartbeat of the moon, alive and beckoning.

Only with freedom of vision and thought we can unleash our unimaginable, magnificent, wonderful world inside of us.
“Everybody has a secret world inside of them, I mean everybody. All of the people in the whole world, I mean everybody – Inside them they’ve got unimaginable, magnificent, wonderful, stupid, amazing worlds….” – Neil Gaiman

You cannot paint in colors and words unless your mind is free to travel to your imaginary legendary lands between the corner of sunset and the verge of dawn. Unless your heart dances at the tune hummed by a water-lily. Unless your mind is raving at the wild immaculate trees. With freedom and broken dreams you can do anything. The shards of olden dreams are lavish land for new unbroken dreams.

“A painting to me is primarily a verb, not a noun, an event first and only secondarily an image.”- Elaine de Kooning
A painting is not a noun, it is a verb – to love. To love with fierce freedom and lovely despair of losing one’s self into the loving.
In love we are maneuvering a human mechanism that at times refuses to work…That is clear, but the trying is enchanting. Buckets of enchantment color ethereal worldly beings in agonizing freedom and…love.

 

Art by Gustave Adolphe Mossa.

Persephone’s dusk

Why can’t we
sleep with the Gods?
be with them
turn their thoughts to foam
touch and revere
their lapis lazuli skin
until myths flicker in the cave

and the earth booms at their voices
The rain from Olympus
is the fog in the valley.

Life is not all lovely thorns and screaming butterflies.

 

Art by Gervasio Gallardo.

What can I give you?

What can I give you? I am the blue
as imagined by a blind
and the roots of knowledge
as watered by a scholar.

I am the yellow
wind and the mauve
respond of light
perched
in the ubiquitous trees
tethered in the clouds
that barely scratch
the sky.

I am the green
storm and colorless waves
that wished upon a mountain
to break water in tryst
with the sun.

Not by blindness
we can reorder colors
but by the painting of a soul
in a moment tender
as the liquid moon
is quivering above the forest.

 

Art by Jan Schmuckal.