What fails and what remains
Happyeverafter
For Linda
She says I am a box of crayons, hewn sticks of
molded wax that make the blind borders of a white
world disappear into a chromopoly of hued refraction
where sun and rain kiss in broad arcs that span
everything in between what fails and what remains.
I am the chewed ends of happyeverafter blue where the
sky huddles within a longing to be scattered in swanful strokes,
where a laser lemon sun might speed the day or a spaceneedle
moon squeeze up and over a pierced mahogany ridge scrawled
in short scratches that sketch precisely where the lost worlds live.
molded wax that make the blind borders of a white
world disappear into a chromopoly of hued refraction
where sun and rain kiss in broad arcs that span
everything in between what fails and what remains.
I am the chewed ends of happyeverafter blue where the
sky huddles within a longing to be scattered in swanful strokes,
where a laser lemon sun might speed the day or a spaceneedle
moon squeeze up and over a pierced mahogany ridge scrawled
in short scratches that sketch precisely where the lost worlds live.
I am paper peeling from a scarlet wound of Tennesienna fire,
spring eternal palmed in a sharpened sprig of asparagus, the
blunted stoving of Lincoln hat black that makes shoes scuff the
sepia tilework that danced all the way from Italy to hold her brave
bare feet perfectly so as she moves water from room to room.
I am manatee in the margins where mass polarizes ultra and absolute. I am inch worm in a wasteland beyond mauvelous and mangoed measure. I am timberwolf in the tumbleweed circling paper with whiteout fangs. I am bear hug in blizzard bruise beavering bittersweet brink banana pink. I am goldenrod fun in the Prussian sun fleshed in fuchsian wisteria shadow.
Hold me thus before all you would confer in tint and tone what must needs repel. All shades dim and die in the presence of night; color surrenders its many ghosts, herds lapis Lazarus back into his hopeless hole. There will be no miracles or messiahs tumbling out from umber heavens today. There will be only this box of spilled crayons, this crush of bright shavings curled in the tongues of all we dare not speak.
spring eternal palmed in a sharpened sprig of asparagus, the
blunted stoving of Lincoln hat black that makes shoes scuff the
sepia tilework that danced all the way from Italy to hold her brave
bare feet perfectly so as she moves water from room to room.
I am manatee in the margins where mass polarizes ultra and absolute. I am inch worm in a wasteland beyond mauvelous and mangoed measure. I am timberwolf in the tumbleweed circling paper with whiteout fangs. I am bear hug in blizzard bruise beavering bittersweet brink banana pink. I am goldenrod fun in the Prussian sun fleshed in fuchsian wisteria shadow.
Hold me thus before all you would confer in tint and tone what must needs repel. All shades dim and die in the presence of night; color surrenders its many ghosts, herds lapis Lazarus back into his hopeless hole. There will be no miracles or messiahs tumbling out from umber heavens today. There will be only this box of spilled crayons, this crush of bright shavings curled in the tongues of all we dare not speak.
Joseph Gallo
June 1, 2008
post-time 11:11 PM
3 Comments:
Dear Joseph,
Thank you for touching the soul of my being, bringing to life the colors of my artist journey. Thank you eternally for showing me whether I be dancing in bliss with waters flowing, or mourning, miracles present or not. By divine grace, I always have my colors in my heart. You are amazing and timeless. Linda
Ahh, Principessa Paloma~
It is always essential that we share our penchant for coloring outside the lines. We simply do not believe in lines, those on our hands and foreheads notwithstanding. ;-)
Those brilliant refractions of light have always been within you. It is usually by our own hand that we shade the sun from teasing them out, from singing to them come out come out wherever they are and dance the dawn straight past dusk and into the next.
I just pointed to where the sun was already circling inside you. So scrawl in broad strokes and shout out each blank canvas to surrender up its secret, tease the subtle wavelengths that shimmer the eye to perceive it as being that which it cannot hold and thus throws back out into the world as color.
Thank you for your kind comments and for saying to me what is found in the first line of this poem, for making my coat of many colors reflect this all back to you.
Brava, bella, Linda Paloma.
From the first time i met you i knew you were a visionary. the story of the easter bunny horror movie i felt was something new and refreshing, compared to some of the unimaginative things we see in film today.
i met you at a BBQ about a year ago. i was simply a boy with a dream, now revived as a boy with a goal. all i have in me is the will and power that words have so granted me. and through the pain my fingers have felt through the past year since i last saw you, the ink and iron of my pen has not run dry. you gave me something i really needed; hope. to see a poet such as your self, and the words the have spewed from thoughts to ink have rattled my mind into a frenzy of inspiration. i have done far more than create a simple novel; with your inspiration i have created a living, breathing world. an entire solar system was conceived in my mind as seeing you made me realize that my dream to write such grand words to share among the masses of a word that has long strayed away from the path of innovation and creativity to become the world today; conflicted with a fast paced society that has little time for such words as yours or mine. but that is where i find my self wrong. words such as yours enlighten people; such words brought me up from my knees. so i have done this to thank you, kind sir. if i could ask anything, it would be help from a great man of poetic thoughts such as yourself.
so i do ask for help; a bold statement knowing you have once read a single leave of chapter two of trials of glory. so might my request become fulfilled? that you would do me such an honor to read over the words you helped conceive.
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