Your son is thinking of you today.

..In my life I have met my mother four times
and each time it has snowed,
twice before, and twice in the last few days.


I had always thought of her
watching other children playing out
in the snow, before running out myself
without being able to trace the memory of her face;
only a feeling that something was missing..
I had somehow long ago misplaced.


Each stranger that saw me as a child
travelling alone, with a note pad,
colouring pictures, everything but a home;
all those broken colours, those faded chalk skies.


Sad as the eyes of a doll's soul;
found at at a tragedy
as the only thing perfectly intact
covered in ashes and bruises.


Often beautiful,
as cathedrals that shiver
in the far illuminated distance
like jukeboxes in a dream
playing the same song forever.


Where Kafka sits like an insect trapped in amber
contemplating eternity in a glass
and his desire to knock of it off the table
as inspiration for a poem
but drinks the poem instead, because he can.


I have been half metamorphosed
like Icarus that lacks the sparrows heart
or Medusa that didn't have
Michelangelo's eye for beauty.


I taught myself to live from a distance
at a slower pace of time
in sync to all the things that flow
and pass us by..


When no one else is watching, perhaps
bitterly arguing
as all I remembered as a child
colouring in the sky
against a backdrop of screams
like munch's famous painting.


Like Lovecraft's lost childhood;
all those unrecorded shadows
that bled into his words
as tentacles of horror
or the drunk and stumbling
silhouette of an abuser.


This is how others, or myself
have seemed as ghosts
following as mist does
the transparency of its dream.
I have tried to follow echoes
back to the source of a scream.


Those letters you sent to your lost child
that never got to me,
those years of solitude
became this quiet reflection I have;
soft and indestructible as the rivers ghosts.
This way of seeing the world
through soft spoken eyes of
stained-glass;.


When the sky
has become a lost water-colour
of bruised purples
I wonder if a soul has colour
if a soul knows it is a soul,
and to who it once belonged to.


I listen, just pause and listen to the snow
to the exiled thoughts of the city
and feels the stars an inch from my face
as though someone were reciting Poe
from the tintinnabulation
of tin roofs tap-dancing silent reveries of woe.


Sad as the eternal tired tidal eyes
of a doll's soul; found
as the only thing perfectly intact.

• On Friday, July 17, 2009, ALBATROSS (226) wrote:
  
  It is clear that you are cultured and have a knack for articulating while simultaneously creating a whole world in its path. That's my kind of poetry. "Where Kafka sits like an insect trapped in amber contemplating eternity in a glass and his desire to knock of it off the table as inspiration for a poem but drinks the poem instead, because he can" I love this stanza, it's a wonderful depiction of Franz in your own world spawned by his existentialism. There was so much more to this that I will have to revisit. But for now, wonderful work!
  
  
• On Friday, February 13, 2009, Ainsof (2120) wrote:
  
  simply stunning imagery, the kind that wraps itself inside one's mind, finding a blanket where once there was no warmth.
  
  
• On Friday, February 13, 2009, freudian-slip (342) wrote:
  
  "I wonder if a soul has colour if a soul knows it is a soul, and to who it once belonged to." plain and not so simply amazing. g
  
  
• On Friday, February 13, 2009, Ainsof (2120) wrote:
  
  to whom it once belonged
  
  
• On Friday, February 13, 2009, saintedmad (1424) wrote:
  
  ..."like Icarus that lacks the sparrows heart or Medusa that didn't have Michelangelo's eye for beauty". .. .such iamges should be Art as is. . . your wrods are pure creationism. . .. taken form from nothing to bring everything. . .. . words like sculpture; solid and yet ethereal, the David lamenting his youthful stolidness.... ..goodness...gracious.. starkly introspective and always..such a thing of beauty to read you. (\)ess
  
  
• On Friday, February 13, 2009, whisperer (217) wrote:
  
  like listening to a beautifully crafted painting sing a symphony of emotions
  
  
• On Friday, February 13, 2009, Believer (81) wrote:
  
  "I wonder if a soul has colour if a soul knows it is a soul, and to who it once belonged to."- those lines stood out the most for me. but all in all this was a great piece. it read very slowly and solemnly. like the heart dripping-melting off the page. it hurt all the way through.