Category: ai art
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undergods of creation
I have just set the sun in the sky, slightlyangled toward afternoon, when my ghost comesto tell me my images are againinfantile like a child drawing with crayons.where are the birds, the jet from chicagostreaming its way to houston, or perhapsa reiterated ‘v’ of migratingfowl—it is the season—and where those leaves,richly colored in the bright…
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Poet & Muse #197
or perhaps bitter . . .
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art to optimism
ughf! dyspeptic morning and the whole dayyet to go. oh, but I took a vow ofoptimism: how am I to face thisin brightness, this overcast novembermorning with my belly aching and headfilled with allergy cobwebs, eyes itchywatering and thus painting the world drabwater color . . . and now, suddenly, I turnmy mind to matisse…
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Filler
this is a filler sonnet. it has littlelife its own, is meant to wedge in betweenpoems in a collection — for you, dearreader, because at this point you’re inun-dated with poetry and likely notpaying close attention, and not everyverse can be a work of genius, evenfrom a writer of great talent or skill. it’s not…
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After a Classic Poem
thoughts contained in nothing run out, waterleaking from a cracked urn, and where is keatsto chronicle its ode? but, no, it isnot graced with fauns nor bacchants dancing nude;indeed it is but a whitewashed vesselof no particular pedigree, banaland lonesome for its homeliness, commonenough to be found at any flea marketor the roadside shop of…
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she
she was alone, smoking a slim cigaretteand drinking chardonnay at the bar:legs up to the sky, clouded gently bya short skirt of diaphanous design;this was back when one could smoke cigarettesin public places. she was glamorousdespite that and the seedy dive, sinatraplaying over tinny speakers behinda bar conspicuously out of style.her eyes enticed as much…
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Equinox
we raised a toast to night and poesy,we raised our toast to the muses nine;she, smiling, reflected moonlight and star shine,pale face floating above the campfire, lightas mist but clear as the evening’s chill outsidethe campfire’s glow of warmth and hickory smoke. we raised a toast to tomorrow and life,we raised a toast to passions…
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Occult
mystery is a thing of feathers, flies awayon bat-wings, crawls into the earth through suspiciousburrowed holes, swims alongside sharks and within podsof dolphins, sings with angels’ voices, screeching onthe strings of demon fiddles and beats with drummingpercussion through the blood of all sentients. mysterythe lifeblood of knowledge and breath of wisdom, inhaledbrings curiosity to awaken…
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Pumpkin Holiday
awake into early chill, season of frostand the pumpkins are all in, yards bedeckedfor holiday of unholy . . . neverone to participate, our family hunchesbehind cinderblock walls, hoards its candyand hides from the general hostilitysociety seems to bear. this benigndistrust seems born in the genes, showing trueas well in all mother’s sisters, one whonow…
Fringemonkey Scribbles 