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To Vincent My Friend.

To Vincent, My Friend.

In the summer of 1993, Vincent you came to me.
You touched my hand and linked our souls.
Why me? Why me?
You’re energy ignited me, touched my inner light.
You guide me through my darkest night.
No one understands ‘us’, they think they do, no one can feel or think the way that ‘WE’ do.
I hear your voice, I feel your hands, and you show me your light and how to stand.
You guide my hands, you guide my paint, you tell me clearly, so very dearly.
How can ‘WE’ make them understand, the beautiful way you touch my hand?
I have a gift, thanks to you, it has helped me through.
My hands paint fast, it is so clear; I listen when you are so near.
I feel your touch, I feel your pain, I feel the sorrow-without your gain.
The World watches you, hypes you up.
“What a joke” I hear you say.
You are a Master of Art, You knew it then, what is wrong with the mad men?
You were not crazy back then, just an artist with a voice, no one listened back then.
“So hear this” I hear you say, “Now look at me now I’m away, watch me smile and laugh out loud, as I watch YOU all bid away”.
“What fool’s you are and Mad Men be- to give your wealth away in glee”.

As I come back and help dear Dawn on this Great October Morn.
We both laugh out loud and work on our art that found us both from the start.
We use the channels to portray our energy thought, our magnetic moments.
So now what will be the out come of this?
Who cares, we have our dreams our Spirits alive.
Watch and wonder how Dear Dawn breaks on this October Morn.
Watch her paint with peace and light, her brush strokes shine in tune with her mind.
Bid away you mad men are, as ‘WE’ watch away with glee.
So who is mad in the end, not ‘WE’, we have to go quietly on.
Now let me pass you to My Dear Dawn as she shows you all the way to go, Listen with your eye, the eye so pure.
You will learn the upper score.
Bow your heads in shame, to ‘US’ it is all the same.
By

Dawn and Vincent.

26th October 2008

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Comment by AveHurley on May 6, 2009 at 2:13am: Thanks for the invite~! I am not much of a poet.. my brain is too fried~!
I do remember one poem I wrote when I was young after JFK was assassinated. I was in 3rd grade at the time and we were on a fire drill when the news came through. We had to sit in silence in our classrooms the rest of the day praying for him and our nation. I had only learn to read over the preceding year and often wondered who JFK was as I tried to sound it out as jifkd..not realizing it was initials, lol...I got angry when he died because I was just starting learn how to read a newspaper and he was always in it.. The naitivity of a child.. so in 4 th grade at the age of 8 or 9 I wrote this poem...

It was JFK all the way~
Or so the slogans used to say.
But into the office in which he worked~
No one knew what the future lurked.

Of happiness which was the scene~
Until the moment all cried or screamed!
Then Congress & Senate stopped their paces.
As all the world wore saddened faces!

[There was more but I dont remember it right now.....but then again I was a kid]

:)
Ave

Comment by Kriss Erickson on March 3, 2009 at 12:13pm: Balding Man

A balding man knelt
On the living room rug.
“Giddiyap!” I squealed.
We bounded across
The room.

A balding man held
A mewling bag.
I cried as he flung
The kittens into the river.

A balding man picked
Wildflowers
For Mother’s garden
To make her smile.

A balding man swung
His belt, buckle first.
Leaving red welts
Across my body.

A balding man cried
Shaking with grief
Holding his dead wife’s hand,
“What’ll I do without her?”

Should I love the balding man,
Who gave horsy-rides
Picked wildflowers.
And cried for my mother?

Should I hate the balding man
Who drowned kittens,
And beat me?

If the image would cease
Shifting,
Perhaps I could
Decide.

Comment by Jamie Berumen aka JBbuzn on March 1, 2009 at 2:44pm: You I Won't Let Go
Even though you're no longer here,
I wonder,
Do you still feel my breath beside your ear?
You I will always hold tight,
Our memories always hold dear.
Silently you're here with me,
inside me,
You're right in front of me when iI see my soul in the mirror.
I cross my heart,
and hope to die,
unable to erase these tears I cry.
How could something so right end up so wrong?
Searching for my place in a space I don't belong.
I try to be strong,
pick up move on.
Convincing them this way's for the better,
yet forever I'm pretending
cuz those heart strings wont be severed.
Jamie Berumen

Comment by Zhenlian on November 19, 2008 at 11:11pm: Admiration
Birds balance their souls in the
Evening sunrays
Beautiful as the flying nymphs of some
Forgotten folklores
And don't ever forget
For even a day
To look at the wonders of mother Earth!

Comment by Marta Melniczuk on November 15, 2008 at 4:02pm: Thanks for invite, Best!

Comment by dawn hilton on November 2, 2008 at 9:28am: Are you a writer or poet? Is there one inside you just bursting to get out? Do you know someone else who writes… ?

Blank Media would love to hear from you. We are always looking for new voices for blankverse, the new creative writing section of blankpages, our downloadable monthly e-zine. We accept poetry, fiction, and creative non-fiction. Additionally blankpages is also looking for submissions for gig / exhibition reviews.

For further information please click on the link below:
http://www.blankmediacollective.org/index.php/news/opportunities_comments/blankpages_blankverse
or email us at: editor@blankmediacollective.org

Comment by Margaret P. Platt on November 2, 2008 at 2:22am: Ramble ramble...I wish I could turn my ramblings on at will! Thanks for the ha ha, and feedback, Dawn!

Comment by dawn hilton on November 2, 2008 at 1:56am: Ha-ha, you should ramble more, perfect description of passion.x

Comment by Margaret P. Platt on November 2, 2008 at 1:54am: Marge's note:*This is just the ramblings of a tired mind!

Passion Stolen

Passion consumes us
drives us
to heaven or hell.
Passion creates life,
or destroys it.
It propels us ever forward
into dreams
or dilemmas

Without passion,
we can reach for the stars,
but not grab onto them
It is the stuff that gives us
the will to live.
It is desire,
hope,
and need.
Passion is
without indifference.
It uplifts indifference,
to creativity,
realization,
charity.
Passion stolen,
is passion given,
ignored,
invalidated
Withering,
Painful,
and sour.