No More to Outpour

Oh! the wretched artist who has no more to pour out,
With the spout of his heart clogged and his mind bogged
And conscience dogged by guilt with silt building up
In his forlorn soul with gaping hole that can’t be filled!
What is he to do with the shrew complaining in his brain
That he should draw in awe, painfully paint till he faints,
Play piano till the break of day, and all without dismay?
Oh! but he’s spent and bent under a load of uncreativity,
And there’s no more to give to live his living part in art,
So he sits with bits and pieces flying around in his head,
Bouncing off the walls and bed, but with nothing said . . .
Nothing to be said in his sad condition void of ambition;
So in contrition he lowers his eyes in floorward position
In silent admission of being a musician without a song,
An indolent poet now when once he’d been quite potent,
Nothing to be sculpted or carved, so starved is his spirit;
Oh! the wretched artist who has no more to pour out!
Ah! but perhaps there is something to pour in to begin
To live once again! After all, even artists need to feed!

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The Poet: Crawling and Scrawling

Why does he wake up each morning mourning,
With this pounding in his head as he lays in bed?
Does he know what they’ve said?
What they’re even now saying?
What the jack-asses are braying?
Maybe, but he just reaches for the bottle of pills
To throttle the raging in his mind and to blind
Himself to any reason in treason to sensibility;
Then he crawls from up under the dark covers
To scrawl on the four walls again
To begin another obnoxious poem!
And he acts like a turd ‘n eats like a damn bird
While spewing forth absurd lines that rhyme
But make no sense, yet he makes no pretense
Of intellectuality, his brain obviously a casualty
Of some inner war fought and lost, leaving him
Under the frost of insanity and fictitious vanity;
Ah! There he goes driving his words like a herd
Of cattle to be caged by pompous pen on paper!
Oh yes, he is the poet, after all,
But whence will come his fall
When his words will stand tall?
For now he is the crawling and scrawling poet,
Crawling and scrawling . . .

Write to Drive Out the Blight

You could lie back down and try to cry away your pain,
But your tears would come in billows to soak your pillow
And not wash away your suffering shuffling your soul
Like strange cards in a puzzling deck, while tightening
Chain around your neck; or you could pop another pill
To still your raging emotions staging Shakespearean
Tragedy in your heart in which you simply have no part;
Or you could hurt yourself, thereby sending away pain
With the gain of even worse pain, but at least it’d be
Something new, true? For a few moments of poisonous
Peace you could slice into your fresh flesh, but would
This last past the night into the light of day, would
You say? Or you could sit at your keyboard and lord
Over the profusion of confusion and psychic occlusion,
And you could spill your agony onto glowing screen
In a thrill of release and concomitant peace, cognizant
That relief will not last forever but in belief that
At least you can create a leitmotif for each and every
Reappearance of this demonically sordid motif; and what
Could constitute a better, more sardonic letter to hell
Than one in which with laughter you determine to kill
Dark spirits with words that will be heard throughout
Numinous realms? It may not be canonic but it makes
Good tonic for the troubled soul, no? And you should
Know it also fills the hole that’s been such troublesome
Bowl of fury causing your spirit such painful hurry
And unnecessary worry; so write!
And write to your heart’s delight!

Real Power of Poetry

You think you are so great, and so full of hate,
But you have no power against my strong tower;
You fool with cool words of pretended wisdom,
And imprison with your lies and cries of fame
And blame the innocent,  and shame to tears,
Spreading all fear over the masses who bypass
Joy and peace and everlasting lease on life;
Your game is up; you’ve been tamed in chains,
As lightning flashes pierce your black night
And dispel your pathetic plight in the light
Of truth that triumphs o’er the cauldron sight!
Who are you, anyway, to say you know the way?
Who are you to hold the pen of poet in sin?
Who are you to move the fine brush of artist
And make the stageplay blush in hush of shame?
For there is an Artist who painted the skies
Without tainted creativity; the Maestro who
Sung the first song sweetly, and who sculpted
Out of earth and clay the worth of all life
Not rife with pain, but play in unending day!
Stay away, then, Liar! Go back to eternal fire!

Note: I would especially like to dedicate this poem to my poet friends, Dajena and Nandita, for the support and encourage and prayers through an especially rough time in my life. Blessings to both of you!

Create

Redirect your energy in synergy with the Spirit
Before entropy casts its pall over your heart
Bleeding now with creativity before passivity
Of mind sets in to bind you to bleakest apathy;
Arise and shine; live as branch from the vine,
And entwine yourself with the life-giving Life;
Breathe before you seathe forever your art —
Better part of who you are — and look now afar
At guiding Star you can no longer reach
Across the breach of your languid soul
Create now while it is still day before
Night comes when no one can create…