Stars of 2014 #3

Hello sweet people, I hope you all have a great Valentine's Day  make sure to let your dear ones know how much they mean to you  That been said I love you all thank you for being such an important part of my life

Now please let me introduce you to...

 

 

to love you is to lieto love you is to lie;
to deceive you is to betray myself.
to curse you is to send my heart to something else,
perhaps a ghost of what I imagined,
last spring, in the rain, under the full moon,
that open heart, willing soul, and I knew them both.
to love you is to die;
to trick you is to destroy myself.
shattered windows and bloodstains,
my mind torn from my body as I tried to
fathom
my stars all falling from the sky.
loving you is agony;
shunning you is pain.
not again, said my corpse,
my battered conscience,
this house is built on stone!
but summer brought heat,
autumn brought wind, and
winter brought the chill of death.
suddenly the fortress I had built was
gone, taken by new spring floods.
loving you is death;
hiding from you is torture.
who to blame?
my being, my essence,
swept from beneath by the hand of forces unseen.
my heart had no more walls, then,
my soul was sinking, and
my mind was weak from distress.
shining strength of twenty suns, I prayed,
allow this love to vanish lik a tribute to robert frostI have been one acquainted with the night,
and that has made all the difference.
one aged man--one man--can't keep a house,
but I am done with apple-picking now,
and miles to go before I sleep,
so now and never any different.
"you'd think the inner dome of heaven had fallen,
like two kinds of jewels, a vision for thieves-"
can't a man speak of his own child he's lost?
like pearls, and now a silver blade,
and dead wings carried like a paper kite,
nothing gold can stay.
something there is that doesn't love a wall;
truth? a pebble of quartz? for once, then, something.
the clever eyes of my wandering child,
heart not averse to being beguiled.
always searching for souls in the dawn,
but I shall be gone. Black and white    There was a man at university, many years ago, who would come outside of the library with a book of poetry. I knew it was poetry because of the way he would pause, as if listening for his name being called, then return to scanning the well-worn pages. I got up the nerve one day to unseat myself from the counter at Starbucks and walk outside to inquire about the nature of his material.  
   "Hello," I said quietly, trying not to disturb him too much. He barely glanced up, however, and continued reading. "Who have you been studying for so long?"
    This time he did pause, but only long enough to whisper, "Blake."
    I sat down, intrigued. "The crow wished everything was black," I ventured, waiting for him to respond. He suddenly stood up, and I feared I had offended him.
   "The Owl," he said, "that everything was white."
    He walked away, and I turned to find that he had left his Blake collection. I reached for it,
Taches de vin    The first choice was the more favorable one, and they both knew it: to take the train out of the city. The last stop would be their first, a one-way ticket, and they would walk the rest of the way under the stars. The open country, European villages, friendly skies, and a dirt road.
    The second choice, although neither of them liked it, was one they both needed. They would skip their stars, the trek to the beach, and lunching at a roadside inn. No, they would part ways here, she pursuing her dreams of artistry and he searching for a permanent home for his typewriter. Their loft would empty, boxes slowly filling the one-story apartment, little room left for hard feelings. Over time, the smells of coffee and cigarettes would fade from the small space, leaving only a solitary wine-stain on the floor, representative of a relationship muddied by addiction and conflicting interests.
    "So this is goodbye," he would say, lifting his old Marcado from the floor. "I suppose it is," she 2820 milestag-along games i play with my guilty conscience
as i am drawn running towards the sea
away from the cold atlantic and over the mountains
through misty moors and smoky shacks
into the land of giants and ruffians
past god's own blessed children
i'll rest in the foothills, sleep under the stars
forget why i came, leave my boots in the rain
eventually sing indie rock in memphis
cross the styx and enter no-man's land
sun stroke burning my brain
prairie grass tickling my bare legs
the flames will scorch me as i continue
questioning myself in dreams
visions beleaguering my addled acts
texas taking its toll, dusting me over
when i reach the desert i want to finish
i wish to relax, to lie back and rewind
but i must go on, i am not finished yet
the red clay reminds me of why i walk
the cactus appears as an omen
the roadrunner goes ahead and turns back to help
the promised place is nearing, i can sense it in my soul
a searching light is cast, and i want to respond
it is the final stretch
the pac Rescuing a ghostThe dreams I see are smoke and vapors,
tides of mist that curl around my mind,
swamp spirits in bog bodies that scream,
blood-curdling and brain-bending,
making every attempt to dislodge, dislocate,
my unconscious faculties and feelings.
These are my nightmares, my dark demons,
secrets that mutated from mice into monsters,
transformed my heart into a no-man's land,
somewhere between hypertension and flatline.
Cold and cruel,
poisonous and grey --
My life is an environmental hazard,
shady and smog-soaked stillness;
I need somebody with a hazmat soul,
someone with a tolerance for tampering.
Throw me a line, throw me a bone,
give me what I need to survive.
If the paths of my arteries become constricted,
if the fork in the road becomes a knife,
if the road less taken becomes the only road remaining --
consider it a small victory to have entered my life at all.
Tear me from my eyrie, scour the flesh from my skeleton,
consider it a triumph to have saved me from myself.
Blind me, strike me wh
diamonds, bones, and oak spirits(moussaieff)
like a petal,
i fall in spirals to the grounds of the garden,
leaving my sorrows on rosebuds
as i pass by --
hoping to see them crystallize,
hoping to see them grow,
hoping beyond hope that they will shed
tears of their own.
(orthopedics)
i've bent my bones
like stars reflecting off lake wobegon
or a dragon undergoing psychoanalysis,
so i dream a little dream
of your coffee shop around the corner --
about the silky espresso sunrises
melting my already fragile skeletalia
and transforming me into a career man.
here's the thing:
i don't like driving sports cars,
or trying to fit into limousines,
or drinking pricy champagne
at benefit dinners for people who don't exist;
i don't enjoy this new life
any more than i did the old.
i want more than anything
a good massage therapist
who knows her way around the lumbar,
who could maybe loosen up my
too-tight hold on reality for just
a moment, just long enough for me to
catch my breath and learn how to walk again.
(deciduousness)
in be saudadeastral: stargate lover, come back to me
the sun presets your heart for a burn cycle
(flame, flume, flare, fade)
weightlessness in the ways of winter
the moon twists and twinges to see you fly
glisten, glow, glide aside my mind
wait for the pull to lessen, linger, leave
crash and break and beckon (black and blue)
oxygenize your anger, sweet one (sweet, sweet)
let this feeling die with me, let this lust drain away
prepare a funeral for the memory of the future
prepare for the ocean to meet you when you fall
if you get a twitch, a stitch in your soul
remember we're not so far apart after all (close, close)
just stars on the surface, satellites orbiting the same idea
that one ceiling isn't enough to block out the sky
and as the mice and men make their recovery
I am drawn senselessly into the past again
wondering why you forget me so easily to sophiawhen by thy scorn, O murd'ress, I am dead,
till blues & sorrow song,
no fairy takes, nor witch hath power to charm,
an anthem for the queenliest dead that ever died so young--
of birth and death, the two sad knaves of thieves,
runoff, pitch-black, from the rivers of Psalms,
a gleaming glassy ocean,
as silent as pictures on the wall.
but when the crowing syrens blare,
it's as if the rain
and the sky came down,
its guardian grasp on blood and brain.
the ghastly clouds of yonder skies
compare thus to your love;
torrents of your miseries,
rained on me from above.
a quiet akin to ruins--
the ghosts swarm.
the ghost that was myself--
it joined other spirits exhaled before dawn.

 

M A R I E-F R A N C E Cadiou from Saint-Brieuc, Brittany, France introduced herself the most beautiful way: "I am a painter, I cannot imagine my life without painting; it is as necessary as breathing." With a little humour she explains... "I started making art with my first color box - when I was about four. Making art seriously ? For 30 years; I am actually 54." Most of her works - inspired by humanity and feelings -are not figurative. "I want to use colours to create light, to get space, in connection with my internal world. My goal is to make of my painting a kind of living body."

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