Author: tiphane

A Last Waltz, Rev. 2

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Her fingers dance along The steps of her favorite waltz Coming to her ears Floating on a legendary river She counts: One, Two, Three And enters her reverie She sees the soft green eyes Repeats the dizzy spell Of a night in her distant past Rescued by his agility The strength so subtle Of a charming dancer Whose name she forgot It feels like New Year in Vienna The images of people in black and white The angels of her mind Counting to midnight On a monumental clock Their feet glide unencumbered On the powdered floor A fine dancer, she thinks The palm of her right hand Barely touching his left Their fingers curling Towards a desired embrace If only she could break the rules But the clock strikes midnight Her eyes open to the present Darkness she recognizes Aches and discomfort A reality she can evade Counting: One, Two, Three To see him, touch him, feel him Once more Waltzing into infinity

The Night of the Shooting Star

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In this mid August night Enrobed in wool Wholly surrendered to gravity against the earth I watch in the dark sky Shooting stars coming alive Each meteor begging for attention One I follow from birth to extinction Says to me: “I am but a speck of light in the vast expanse of your vision. Why do you pay attention to me?” I cling to the uniqueness of my star As others display equal if not superior spectacle To the underdog of pyrotechnics And I make a wish that You, the unlucky winner of fewer summers in the lottery of life You, who take an uneasy step every day on a fallen staircase You, beautiful one, robbed of your youth be my star. Let me try to pass you The olympic torch and hope that one day you will run and illuminate the sky. Until then I replay the memory of The night of the shooting stars in mid August.

Thoughts on the Anniversary of Hiroshima

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note: I read this at an open mic and it started a controversy about the justification of the bombing on Hiroshima and Nagasaki. So I failed to raise our consciousness to the level of what it means to be human and at either end of weapons. My personal opinion is that all weapon manufacturing, small and large, should be stopped and made illegal by all countries. Take that for a controversy. I’m sure many men will scoff at the idea, as they usually do, since they’ve been brainwashed from birth that one should have more weapons than the neighbors in case they used theirs. What happened to talking about our differences? What happened to trying to understand events under a different light? Peace,Guy Thoughts on the Anniversary of Hiroshima On August 6, 1945, this child’s sixth birthdayNever happened, erased from all memoryRecords pulverized by a gigantic mushroomThe fungus on humanity’s footAs it continues trampling onPrinciples, teachings, evolutionAs it continues spreading the seedsOf hatred under engineered flowersSo pretty, so noble, so smart. Sixty years later it …

What Will We Do About It?

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They say we replay forever in our mindsThe rules learned in the first six years of our livesThe mother of all mantras, like a broken recordImages of your first fearsSeen through your first tearsAdults standing byDeciding whether you will love or hateBe selfish or generousWithdrawn or outgoingA poet or a politicianObserving chaos or causing itAn innocent bystander or a perpetrator. Now we sit on the edge of chaosAnd the voices say, “do nothing, you cannot do anything about chaos, you don’t know how to deal with chaos.”Do we stand up, or submit? Crafty discourse rides on the mother of all mantras, expecting complacency and extinguishing all growth of conscience, as if we were six years old. This could be our collective ageA society unable to learnStuck in its fears and instinctsWhat will we do about it?

The Birth of a Neo-Expressionist Painting

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The Birth of a Neo-Expressionist Painting Memories clog the channels of the mind The fingers twitch from the need to paint Alerting sensations to the task. Eyes sit on the subject A mantra meditatively clearing ideas on a false start. A tentative dip in color An adroit skin tone begins In softness imagined, moisturized and hydrated. A dissonant vase made and cracked in a virtual world A nest in a corner of what could be love Unseen notes from a singing voice Floating to the suggested ears Give the body a frisson. A timely switch to a less dominant hand blends in A quasi medieval being massages the back, invisible Thrusting the body towards the viewer An unintended provocation. The painting is unfinished.

Gravity

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Gravity Trust gravity to keep your feet on the ground Looking down, you fail to see the attraction of the earth, of life on it, despite the many ants, ladybugs, tiny flowers, and micro-organisms busily mixing things up. Being a distinguished person, you don’t lean to better distinguish those elements of life, for fear of exposing a side of yourself other forms of life dislike. That is gravity. Fighting gravity keeps you out of the grave Until it lowers your eyelids Like the end of the day With the sun going down And the moon rising on the other side.