Poems are supposed to be written in a specific form and deal with important subject matter and have the punctuation required to heighten the artistic and social intention of the poet highlighting the socio-political context from which the work emerges well some of the greatest happenings have happened from challenging what is and what should be in the eye of the creator for that is art and when art is caged by people who believe they have authority on freedom of thought that is when creativity dies so just know this is a poem because I wrote it and I am a poet so don’t tell me how to think creatively
Art
Cartoonist
A soft crescent moonlit evening
lights the garden and exposes
the weeds that should have been removed.
He slips carefully into the hammock between
the two trees and sips his drink
as he stares at the mocking moon.
He cries, as he always does, and longs
for his lost love.
All he wanted was the look
she gave his best friend the day
they ran off together.
Instead he got a note on his car window
(it was in the red lipstick he bought her):
SORRY NOT SORRY
His heart wasn’t broken for that implies
the heart must have been intact.
He simply hoped his suspicions were false.
The night-wind flows through his hair
and he puts down the glass, takes a pen
and scribbles his nightly pain in
the form of a cartoon.
Tonight:
A giant half-heart and a bloodied knife,
a simple caricature of his feelings.
He signs his forgotten name below
and goes inside his
empty house.
Indecision
“I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.”
– The Road Not Taken, Robert Frost
To choose one of two great loves:
A happy forever after scattered
with the occasional rough patch.
But never both.
FIRST:
Love.
Happiness in the arms
of someone beautiful
in and out.
A love to wrap around myself
like a fleece blanket in a snowy tundra.
Security knowing that even if I had
nothing
I would have someone
who would make it everything.
SECOND:
Art.
A steady career filled with limitless opportunities
that would let me see the world.
And a guaranteed growth of character
experiencing the genius of countless creators
scattered across the globe
like cloudlets of passion.
CHOICE:
I cannot have both;
I must decide.
Success will only come
in the hands of sacrifice.
CONFUSION:
Loving both with my soul
but knowing my soul is single-chambered
and has a hollow for only one.
The swirling in my mind confuses
and disorientates.
Speared thoughts from every second
person saying what I should do.
HURT:
Knowing I will have to turn
away
from one for the other.
And longing for that which
I
did
not
choose.
DECSION?
Indecisive.
Immortality
Confusing like a Picasso,
twisted like a Dali!
Melting away time,
waiting like
the Thinking Man – frozen.
Tiny dots of confusion
make up the mind;
almost a comical Lichtenstein…
BOOM!
A green coke bottle
on an infinite shelve of
green coke bottles,
but wanting to shine like
a Koons tulip.
A Mysterious Mona yet so
beautiful like a starry night…
Searching for the truth
in a world of lies;
beautiful Banksy
being washed away, lost,
scrubbed by the critics;
cursed by authority
for not being ‘acceptable’!
Yet powerful and brave
Forza e ira:
strength and anger!
A pearl in a shell,
a priceless speculation
of beauty and intellect.
A life of Eschered eternity
and precise confusion
going in mindless circles.
Try, try, try
to interpret the Pollock
colours and chaos…
A silent scream for eternity
as the twisted world
haunts and creates
anguish; despair.
Cut and paste into
a better world, Hamilton!
Hoping to be a Red Vineyard…
Maybe someone will
see worth before
death!
By Design
Walking through the cracks of
life I try to create what is not…
Above all suspend something more;
something artistically assertive.
I trample on the flowers and
I photograph the mud.
Hang the photographs
of the achievements
in halls of recognition…
Hoping that simply
by being among ‘greatness’
they will be transformed
from art into Art
and I will be perceived
as a real artist…
In doing so I realised
that the Artist is not defined
by their Art.
The Art is defined
by the Artist.
The Statue
Standing upon the great
piece of concrete:
solid and stolen picture
of eternal fairness.
Was it meant to be?
Standing tall and powerful
with a look that is knowing.
A hint of fear:
the Eyes!
A stolen glimpse
captured perfectly.
It was willing.
It was real.
But it was hidden.
“Confess to you…
“Confess to yourself in the deepest hour of the night whether you would have to die if you were forbidden to write. Dig deep into your heart, where the answer spreads its roots in your being, and ask yourself solemnly, Must I write?”
From Rilke’s Letters to a Young Poet.
Mr Individualist 