Inkpoem

Rage can be a bitter plum, spilled inkwell, or empty words. -b.c.d.

The Dizzy Kid (Poem)

He sat alone,
around him a cacophony of noise muffled,
the carousel of water surrounding, spinning, rising, falling,
the sky pebbled and the color of pigeons.

Waves thumped against his inner tube,
lifting one side gently,
tumbling it down roughly the next moment,
sucked into the onslaught of the next wave.
In circles he rolled and rolled,
like when you start chewing a tasty piece of gum.
Then, as if losing interest in taste,
the wave pool would quiet for a moment,
and the young boy would stare and twist his head,
here and there,
this way, that way,
wondering what would wander his way.

Surrounding him,
swimmers on their backs, stomachs,
up and down like water-held pogo sticks.
Swimmers screaming, laughing, talking, smiling,
spluttering water swallowed by accident,
all anticipating the next waves to roll
forwards, sideways and from behind,
spinning tubes like dizzy tops,
bobbing, slipping, hopping
to a wave's rhythm and roll.

The kid spun himself lazily,
one arm back and forth,
staring at the sparkle shimmer coming off the water's surface,
composing poems in his head.
Poems about silence and movement,
poems about ink spilled into water, staining blue,
poems of strange men wandering deserts in search for secrets.
In thought, lost,
He did not hear the hum of machines starting,
nor the yelps of joy erupting from all around,
nor even feel the tube begin its exuberant rocking.
Instead he sat like a wedged V inside his tube,
and smiled at the sky, thinking out loud,
"No wave is the same shape,
no wave moves the same,
no wave tells the same story."

All hello's and no goodbye's (Poem)

Sun-burnt slinky shimmering,
Sand-glow on a flawless sunset,
she's walking towards me,
all hello's and no goodbye's.
My hand reaches around her hips,
sinuous curve in my palm,
and my breath runs a short fast race,
that it loses.
Underneath her tangerine sunset
I smell oceans and coal-black nights chastened by a trillion stars.

Bunk-Bed Thunderstorm (Poem)

It was four a.m.when the thunder of
equatorial rain began to pound
the aluminum siding of the church beside my building.
Eyes popped open,
brother sound asleep below my top-bunk fortress.
Irises shifting lightning fast,
from chocolate brown to hazel,
as slivers of light do to my eyes after midnight darkness.
Motionless...
a slow exhausted smile creeps across my face,
a veiled snapshot only childhood excitement can attain.
Snug and warm as freshly baked bread,
I
tune all my adolescent senses to
the nature surrounding my concrete city,
pouring its heart out in white ribbons,
and sound-slashes,
emptying its sky in howls that
shake our apartment's sliding living room windows...
And as I lay there,
cognizant of being sole spectator in this trophy display
of Caracas beauty,
the dark corners of my mind slowly crawl into sunshine.

Sentinels before the Haze (Watercolor)

Across the Pond: Cities in Silhouette

A Different Canvas (Poem)

Yellow light soaked the large room,
loft-like, spacious, comfortable,
wooden floor polished with time and bare feet.
Above, a roof etched in lines of steel and iron
laced its way through heavy timber beams,
ceaselessly watching, ceaselessly still.

An enormous divan dominated a corner,
while easels, paints, brushes, varnish, rags and dried splatter
littered the room like forgotten ideas.

The man stood there half-naked,
loose cotton pants the color of tired gray wrapped around him as if in afterthought.
He held a calligraphy brush in one hand, his left,
and a palette in the other,
half-tilted towards the floor, allowing the paints to begin their downward fall,
mixing themselves in a vivid riot.
His head tilted down and to the side,
watching carefully as she slid out of her clothes,
and rolled to one side with her top leg casting a shadow where shadows shouldn't be.
Hair cascaded down either side of her face,
hair the color of a sudden midnight,
having lost its color in the shadow of a growing dark.
Hey eyes, mischievous and smirking,
led him to approach the bed, and on knees, join her at her side.
His look traveled along her body, entirely smooth,
resting on the smeared paint covering her stomach and legs.

"Paint," she commanded,
even as his hands had already begun washing the previous drawing clear,
soon unfocused, then blurred and monochrome.
His face ignored her, focused entirely on the new painting,
new paint slick over smooth skin,
while her eyes gradually softened and lost their smug shade.
Then, gaining lust and longing,
reaching out for his face,
ever closer until he tumbled from the bed,
alone,
awake,
hands smeared in dark indigo,
listening to the fan's song far overhead.