I got what I wanted lost everything I had what can I say What can I do? the faceless ones took everything including you
From the heights of the mountains behind oslo to the depths of despair inseine enparis to be redeemed after death alone leaves me faceless faithless
the impressions that i left kept me away from you reducing you to faceless along with your faceless crew
Today Lillian prompted we poets with works by an artist rejected by his country (Norway) Thorvald Hellesen. I chose this portrait of Mary Alice Eckbo because I felt it had great detail where there is none overtly apparent – as symbolised by the faceless Cubist impression that has been created. I really liked this artist’s work. It is hard to see how it was not recognised by his fellow Norwegians. You can find the prompt here https://dversepoets.com/2023/05/23/an-artist-gets-his-due/
telling stories of phantom glories looking over her shoulder smirking until I cry beating on the table playing I Spy wondering who’s there saying it’s fine working in montage death and decline definitely hers probably mine twitching of the wrist pumping of the fist batting of the eyelids passionate kiss vicious kick full cheek lick what makes her tick she’s a bomb
They told me I was holy
I believed them
Everything changed from there
I knew what to say and how to say it
I knew where to go and who to speak too
And my messages of love served me well
as I travelled the world gathering souls
At first I thought I was on a mission
Then the mission became a privilege
I could bring light into the darkness
Lift the blanket of shadow over the world
Simply by saying the word
Simply by telling everyone
what they already knew
Regardless of their inability to act
I told them
for a better world
they must overcome self interest
Then I saw the truth
How important my own self interest
If I was to be able to continue
doing such good and noble work
love was the word
and they loved me
while I loved adulation
Prayer was empowerment
They prayed, I played
It was a perfect match
of preacher and congregation
Idolatry, narcissism and hedonism
The spiritual demands of today’s society
thereby being well met
The telescope told me I must act
Whispering of star falls and moonrise attack
I reflected on the power I lacked
I must net time and hold it back
the home I could lose the ground where I stood
solid as rock shapable as wood
saw me wretched with fear indecisive and torn
was this last of days the final morn?
So I took my sharpest pencil my notebook red
wrapped my head in wool to drown out the dead
in their bottle on the waves above the seabed.
I went to the library to learn from the books
how to save the moon from destructive skyhooks
the learning was crystal clear as a diamond
shards came together for this ignorant vagabond
I knew what to do I knew it was right
to save moon and world I had to take flight
I set my glider to fly from an open window
when the sun’s mellow light fades to soft evening glow
I leapt on board to find rising fresh air
but all that I found was a down draft there
and I fell to the earth as so many more
I resolved to try again but not like before.
A path to nearby mountains was a long weary trek
if I ramped it straight upward I could launch like a jet
but the weight of the world again dragged me down
into glass houses I crashed with a moan
so I built giant steps on which I climbed high
to take the moon down from the sky.
As I ascended clouds hid the way
I clipped their wings with shears of grey
the stars came to guide me as I climbed and climbed
pushing ever upward was all on my mind
until the way was clear the view up ahead
was one of the moon on a black velvet bed
a moon barely rising still held in sleep’s sway
a moon reluctant to hear my story let us say
so I sweet talked that moon with promises and bribes
offering pleasurable time on earth in which to imbibe
the moon gave a yawn looked up and looked down
asked if I was prophet, conman or clown?
requested some proof what I had to say was true
for it could hear only nonsense hard to construe
so I pointed to the black heavens where no starlight glowed
the moon was astonished then concerned and then bowed
I will go with you to spend time on earth
while threats to the skies are beaten and dispersed
I will rise again when the stars once more burn
to light the night sky with starlight returned.
Moon sank into the ocean for a seaside holiday
destruction avoided with the moon at play
the culprits attacked night to find nothing but vacuum
and the cow in the sky scooped them up with a spoon.
This week Mish asked we poets to write from a gallery of surrealist photographer Erik Johansson’s images. Find the prompt here:
Roderick was into sleeping. He went to bed because in his head he was boring. No one noticed his time asleep. He’d been gone a year and week, which suggests he was quite boring. He’d been lying in bed day after day, when someone wondered, then went on to say, “Where’s Roderick?” They found him asleep and snoring.
Then they said how long it took to find him in his tiny nook. He quietly stated that he mistook the year and week for one nice long sleep convinced it was just the next morning.
Only getting up to go to the toilet, his face was pale, eyes crusty and set. At some time his beard he’d wrapped into a bun, his idea of having a small bit of fun to deal with the cold and no nightcap instead he wrapped it around his balding head. They all said how odd he looked. He replied it was heat restoring.
With no one to talk to and no tv, Roderick had slept all of that time restfully. In his small dark room where day remained night where awake was tedious and without delight. When Roderick woke to that knock on the door, a voice had asked, “Roderick, would you like to sleep more?” Roderick never felt better than when he was sleeping so to sleep again he went as night came creeping. Never was he or others so content than when Roderick slept and time simply went another year until Roderick’s next dawning.
The wombat builds each burrow
mindful of each tomorrow
knowing he won’t stay long
before an urge moves him on
then on he goes to build again
dig and scrape til when
he sees some point of no return
ends nights scouring with a yawn
he sleeps all day and eats all night
moves very slowly unless with fright
when with lightning speed he bolts for a hole
one’s always nearby because building's his role
after a while he returns to the past
to re-excavate old burrows that didn’t last
knowing the smell and pleasure of earth
knowing each hole is his home and hearth
Today’s d’Verse prompt for we poets was from Kim. We were asked to write about animals making their homes. We have lots of Wombats around our place, so it was an obvious choice.
Broderick Smith has died. He has had his time as we all will in the end, but unlike many of us he has left something special behind that will continue to be enjoyed. His legacy is uniquely Australian blues, boogie, country and rock music.
When I first heard the album “Blown” by Carson it was a revelation. That blues and boogie broke through the pop standards of the day to introduce me to a fascinating new range of genres.
When the Dingoes released their self titled album Brod was there again up front. They set the standard for an era of Australian standards. Classic Aussie popular music telling classic Australian stories.
We last saw him solo at the Elwood Hotel some 30 years ago. Still got the CD we bought from him there with that lovely “Snow blind moon” on it.
As another creative person whose music has reached into me passes, I just want to give thanks for his presence, creativity and of course the music. Musicians such as Broderick Smith have added so much value to my life. I will continue to value that gift and be thankful.