Picasso Like Water

Discussion in 'Poetry' started by EternalHunter, Jul 14, 2006.

  1. EternalHunter

    EternalHunter Member

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    There was an old man,
    mind trapped to dirt
    he sat there.

    Suns rise, also fade
    and stars take its place
    weeping sticky juice
    onto his cheeks,
    crystals his tears emulate
    as he
    sits there.

    He heard that Buddhists
    reach for nirvana.
    That life is painful.
    He planned to go softly
    like water.

    So he sat Still.

    Beetles came to
    snuggle in his cracks,
    snakes spiraled his warmth,
    Delphi had no oracle
    greater than
    he.

    Bamboo grows tall
    and softly bends into him.

    He is a stone,
    chiseled from a Cherokee,
    he wears his feathers
    bravely and he
    drinks his coffee black.
    Sometimes he
    listens to rap,
    but mostly
    he just sits silently.

    In the tone of yesterday,
    the uncompromising
    hue of darkness fading,
    whispers wind
    into the gnarled face.

    It tells him stories—
    canyons carved
    through rock and rain;
    People fallen in.

    He sits, no longer
    seeing.

    Too far away is God.
    He has calculated the angles
    of angels,
    seen the empty space
    in the yawns of ghosts.

    Voices break free.

    Timshel you, timshel me,
    Salaam-alekum,
    wunderbar
    & God bless thee.

    He sits

    lost in loss.

    And it’s not that he
    was never free,
    but never captured.
    So seldomly smothered.
    It is what he needs.

    And yet, all is posing perfect
    in tranquility.
    [font=Times New
    Roman] [/font]

    Rain once fell on him.
    Now as he sits, it blows around him.

    Nymphs and dryads
    beckoned blossoming,
    twirling jugs of wine
    and pulsing feet towards him.

    Sight unseeing
    he traces their lines with his palm,
    curves casual smiles with lips
    bleached by sun.
    He sits and lives it.

    Pure mortal,
    caught in caves of modernism.
    Forgotten by Picasso
    while he toyed with cubism.
    Forsaken by vagueness.

    Never mind, he says,
    It’s not like I really knew him.
    I touched my toes today,
    I reached past the milky way
    and skimmed other galaxies
    with my tongue.

    He opens his eyes under the water of the air
    and it does not burn him.

    Heavy it pushes on him,
    he opens his heart to it
    but blood will always escape north.
    Captive of Canaan.

    It is like water,
    He says.

    And he sits.
     
  2. fulmah

    fulmah Chaser of Muses

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    Love it! I usually get bored with long pieces, but this caught me transfixed. Great images, great flow. Rock it, girl!
     
  3. sylvanlightning

    sylvanlightning Prismatic Essence

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    Awesome! What a treat your perception is.... :)
     
  4. EternalHunter

    EternalHunter Member

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    Thanks guys, I'm glad you liked it. I wrote it as a birthday poem for one of my friends...kinda weird though.
     
  5. TrippinBTM

    TrippinBTM Ramblin' Man

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    Hey, this is really something, nice job. Good to see a long poem, too. I've been shortening up, influenced by haiku and the quatrain quango thread.

    Though, you're right, it IS a bit weird for a birthday poem... haha
     
  6. EternalHunter

    EternalHunter Member

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    I usually write shorter stuff. This one came with a 2 1/2 page stipulation
     

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