Categories
Poetry

I’ve been reminded

If you’ve seen me, you’ve seen it:

What pushes my eyebrows together;

What clutches at my heart and mind.

If you’ve heard me, you’ve heard it:

What looks like silence or empty sound, but is words turned inward,

And I unknowingly wish ill for myself.

I know God, and I’d never think to extinguish this –

Yet, I forget vigilance, and the dark swallows my light, since it cannot have me.

If you’ve known me, you’ve known it,

And if you’ve felt me, you’ve felt it,

And now, I see it, hear it, know it, and feel it –

Please, remind me of goodness and of pastimes

In a form that I can revel in –

That I’ll preserve with present

And future joy.

Categories
Poetry

Buried at birth

I am beginning to feel the pangs of being

Some painting one is ashamed of

and keeps facing the wall

In a basement storage room,

The stench of mildew intensifying

With every day that I sit here.

Y’know, I don’t mind so much.

After all, it is terribly amusing, I must say

To be meant for display,

Yet to function as an absorber of musty air

And only be viewed

By a visitor or two.

Is this how it was meant to be?

Perhaps, admiration in sunlit rooms

Never even was; maybe this, this darkness,

Is the only beauty to be had

In a world of unbearability.

Categories
Poetry

Overworked

These lines are too numerous

And too smudged, each shape and tone melding

Into one, big hodge-podge of gray.

Not to mention, the rendering of the background doesn’t even approach being satisfactory,

And my perspective is skewed beyond belief.

Look at the whole, and conclude that the verdict is:

Useless.

Then again, as they say, isn’t taste subjective? Wouldn’t someone take this in, and love it?

Maybe… but objectively, they’d be absolutely wrong to do so – I am sure of it.

This piece that lacks contrast, proportion, and clarity –

Do I erase… alter… do I dare attempt repair?

Or, do I take a match to it, and reduce it to mere ash?

*think*

I stuff it, face down, into my dresser’s top drawer,

And go to fetch a fresh sheet of paper.

Categories
Poetry Thoughts and Entries

What is a drawing, other than the end of a line?

Draw me out, with brittle charcoal and whittled pencil

Onto whatever surface you can find.

After all, don’t I look better on paper

Than under those merciless rays that overwhelm the outdoors?

Where the external is viewed in however many angles,

And the reflected light is equal parts piercing and protective?

Here, my veins aren’t visible; you don’t see a single pimple or stray strand

Or even what the outline of my face looks like.

Here, in a line or two, the internal is traced, a strand of genotype that was never expressed.

Right, left, right, left, right, and then left again;

Though a dimension is lacking, it is almost easier to get lost.

Categories
Favorites Poetry

Open plans

Sanity, that necessity that feels like a lie,

Its neat suit and tie all pressed and crisp

Like some plaster wall in a new kitchen.

It’s no good…! I like open plans,

And this solidity stifles and muffles me.

Obliterate the barrier, and take life back

From cold schedule and confused focus.

But now that the concrete disintegrates,

The abstract has no form to inhabit and dies with it.

Spirit sinks restlessly and without solace

And even if the truth stands before me, it can no longer be grasped.

Categories
Poetry

Artless Art

Artless art

Heartless heart

This is far too much for me to take.

Think when I sleep

Sleep when I wake

Blind as a sheep

Sharp as a snake

Finding a path,

Never been trodden

My feet feel clean

But my socks are sodden.

Categories
Favorites Poetry

…with a what now?

My teacher told me to draw with a twig –

And so, I shall write with my nose;

Paint with my eyelashes,

Sing with my ears,

And read with the tips of my toes.

Categories
NYC

A Love Letter to the Metropolitan Museum of Art

Within your walls, I’ve gone on countless wanderings. At your doors, I’ve met both family and dear friends. Is it lonely, with your halls empty, only sometimes echoing with the clicking of guards’ heels on the floor?

Your stone steps I’ve climbed dozens of times, your tall, wide halls I’ve passed through on countless occasions. As I wove my way among your statues, I grew in height, even in intellect (supposedly), and recorded my experience of your reality through pencil and camera.


Now there is nobody to witness golden Diana deftly drawing her arrow, no one to shiver at the Aztec knives and grotesquely exaggerated Oceanic sculpture. Nobody is peering into the eyes of the dead that lay in their sarcophagi, the bodies carved into wood and stone.

The outline of your Evening I have traced multiple times in pencil into sketchbooks. Now, her soft form I had once shaded goes unseen – she shields her face only from eyes of marble and bronze.


Is there no music anymore? I would imagine that the saxophone player can no longer come to your steps, playing and dancing like he did before. Where dozens of languages were spoken everyday, now there are none at all. Orchestras no longer gather on your balcony. Dancing, laughter, everything is gone.

Everything is gone.


I have only lived a fraction of your lifetime. As I grow and shrink, your pharaohs and knights will remain poised, your painted girls will still blush, and your martyrs will continue to bleed in eternal blessing.

The face of God hangs on hundreds of your walls, his glorious works you hold on display. Can I see them like that once again?