October’s face.

October's faceOctober’s face

torn by wet winds

erodes and decays,

entering a deep

and melancholic

sleep.

 

It’s a worn and aging mask

painted with autumn

landscapes,

dreaming of sunflowers

broken by storms,

trees ripped into

spinning kaleidoscopes

of red and gold confetti,

and

tire marks

in the snow.

 

October’s face,

up against the wall of time

disintegrates,

fragments,

descends with the leaves

towards darker days.

 

Its beauty is short

but the fall

is long.

 

poem and photo by clinock (edited redux).

photo: found wall art, Vancouver. Thanks and Credit to unknown artist.

The 100 #98 – Poet Mask

poetmaskHis lips are pinned to silence,

but behind the mask

the poet

speaks,

stuttering with knotted tongue,

spitting nails sometimes,

mouth burning, cracked voice off-key,

whisperings unheard

amongst traffic and crows,

and the static of stars.

 

Behind the mask,

with worn and ancient tools,

the poet mines his shadowed heart

opening bright shafts of light

through the deepest black,

transmogrifying caves

into cathedrals.

 

Part fool, part mole, part god,

he excavates the stratum of his soul,

wrestling cold rocks with bleeding hands,

always searching under stones

for elusive adjectives,

the missing metaphor,

the long-lost letter

from his dark-eyed muse.

 

Invisible in solitude

he digs from lexiconic soils

long-buried sentences,

faded phrases, corroded rhymes,

and plants them lovingly

in disheveled compost heaps

of synonyms, dank mosses,

nouns and rotted bones,

similes and verbs, fish-heads

and fractured fonts.

 

By candlelight and moon

goat footed spirits dance

on a deserted beach

with ghosts of Lorca, Eliot and Yeats

and behind his mask

the poet sorts and sifts his gleanings,

conjuring and reassembling

torn fragments of language,

for love, for truth, for madness,

his hand juggling

through clouds of unknowing

all he has to offer.

Poem and Mixed Media Painting by clinock

September Mask

September face

torn by autumn

up against the wall,

and the fall is long.

 

across the street

trees dance in glory

and radiant romance.

 

his feet are frozen,

rooted and bare,

layered in mud.

 

can’t go back,

unable to proceed.

seeds become sterile.

 

painted by the season

his September face

is a wasted mask.

 

poem and photo by clinock. image by unknown poster artist.