2019 ~NaPoWriMo ~ Second Week of Poetic Responses to Art and Music ~ Dedication to Mr Paul Brookes of Wombwellrainbow.com and Synaesthetic Artist Mr Sammy-John ~ Making Connections…

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Poetry acts like a bridge.I believe it is not for sale  It has value for generations gone by and for generations to come. It awakens spirits of drowsy nations, entertains guides and instructs. It is colored and scented as carnations. If poetry is defined as the ‘spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings’ then it would surely be enriched if combined with art color and music. Strangely yet possible in this digital age the  ‘connecting bridge’ between Mr Paul Brookes of Wombwellrainbow.com  UK the Synaesthetic Artist Mr Sammy-John and Myself, was the social media ‘messenger on line’  Quick communicative connection kept the challenge  alive and moving. A new painting a new music symbol title,  requiring fresh research was the challenge for me. Before I begin to trace words on paper I visit two  great  sources of knowledge namely the  Divine Knowledge source and the World of Mythology. The beauty of knowledge lies embedded in these boundless realms. The third area is the repertoire of language vocabulary and semantics. The discoveries are amazing spectacular and spellbinding yet so simple at times.The Collaboration took shape as a triangular link, from Word to Window and from Window to WordPress…

Presenting Week Two

Day Eight

Wild Flowers

Beyond the beauty, revealed, quest of finding more persists,
on green and brown sky on land tiny yellow blue and white, exists

I have found flowers, flowers wild dancing, waving, studded in green
visible in the weeds, I hear the velvet tripping of the footsteps of Spring-

Summer pheasants’ eyes shine- agave branches out to meet Alder
or trumpets at ‘baby blue eyes’, or the Barren Strawberry white roses’

Wild flowers touch me like poetry, swaying to soundless sacred sweet
symphonies side to side in obeisance, to invisible conducting companies,

Offering soft cool overtures to  burning soles of injured souls,
enriching meadows to the core, offering ample colorful cures,

wild flowers in deserted desert dunes, dream to possess, as King
Ozymandias waits in stony silence, slithering snakes undulating weave

their colors in the sand, dreading the deadly Peregrine, embroidered,
jaded, studded, laid for romances, wondrous world of plant fragrances,

wave upon wave of variegated crowns, at times, in remote treks, God’s prosody
wild flowers grow, the sight so asking for journeys, ventures and a supreme odyssey’

Day  Nine

A   G Minor

Cue by Mr Paul Brookes :  a key for disgruntlement, a feeling   as  if being a victim


It’s her ’ and no one smiled.abandoned, just a heap of trash

In many lands, born of any caste or creed, not differentiated,

cashed song composed without G Minor fifteen to a forty niner, old miner-

might as well dig coal or carry bricks facing negligence torture injustice

books burnt, sold destroyed tricked  yelling in silent agony, ravaged into

zombies senseless, has humanity not metamorphosed, song stilled , shot.

Day Ten     

C  Sharp  Minor

 

It will not be in a tin fruit can with sweet juice
but in gardens high of a hundred levels

with flowing river water falls and fruits
in plenty none forbidden nor prohibited,

but tasty fruits I saw in childhood would
be a surprise studded rubies in yellow

without space, like Berries, bananas layered ,
dates figs and olives grapes, apples

I loved and dreamed about
Dreams colorful peaceful and brighter

than the brightest star, skies opening in
circles of sound C sharp minor , symphonies

of fragrant flowers, celestial overtures
descending in harmony, all these emerge

as ecstatic aquamarine in numbers in
thousands of pearly castles in golden

diamonds O beautiful gardens heavenly,
I hear notes in C sharp minor,

I gather good deeds to be in, with
the symphony

Day Eleven

My Croci

 


Oh Croci ! no more do I see you on wine glasses,
nor in wreaths crowned on the heads of joyful

Youths, winter white shawl lies cold spread out
all over the valley, river runs red with blood of

Martyrs, the young who still had life to live and

love, but freedom lies fettered , glaciers gaze

From snow lines on the peaks, the sun timidly peers

Oh Croci, wake up’ it’s time wake up before death

Plays its tune, in colors blue white and golden yellow

wake up in purple royal, let the golden strands flow

O Croci bring dignity pride and success, and saffron

let the rebirth begin, the season rise with your perfume

The early bird waits on the bare branch silently-

do not despair oh winged warner’ gold will bloom

Oh Croci come let us be joyful and welcome Spring

many grooms are waiting for many brides to bring…

O Croci may the prayers be answered may freedom ring’

Let freedom ring…

Day Twelve

September in E  Flat

During the senior school learning years,
there were hardly any troubles any fears

the best I remember, song ‘Come September’
in rhythm and dance, I can still hear the

silence of the summer, turn to E Flat murmur
in melancholy, half cooler,  half warmer

younger days when responsibility ensnares
but that September, war, felt in E Flat chord

the only outcome, smoke n oily metal smell,
 falling leaves, an occasional falling petal-

when we could hear the drops of  falling rain
light was the hurt,  and  less was the pain

we could dance to the tune, but softly
now I hear the E Flat octave tremble

but  what should I really remember,
the melting melody or just  the number?

 

Day Thirteen

Commission for Pennies

 

Colors, in water, rare reflections of emotions,
of efforts endless, often in darkness defined

Jaded pale stones, oils, a mixed media, priceless,
commissioned for pennies, what pieces of art

undiscovered, melodies unheard, for pennies
in low moods maintained, painted, dabbed

on eager canvases, hung on lonely easels,
hidden in art rooms abandoned…

Awaiting the sunlight of truthful recognition,
A  Vain legacy in history

Day  Fourteen

 Movement II

movement ii
Cue :  Moving from a comfort zone to a challenging one

 

Clutching her mother’s coat sleeve
holding on to the warmth and security,

of grey white and red checkered tweed,
a natural bond, but a futile struggle,

someone larger than life led her aside,
slowly pulled away, she let go-

swept away by a figure,
clad in thick folded clothes, she

drifted along the blended figure’s
firm movements, brisk and balanced-

suddenly, all was quiet as she tried to
look back, her mother’s painful silent

but determined gaze was no longer visible,
neither was she-

the figure’s movement went
on to a door marked ‘KG’

small chairs and tables filled the hall
a large black board stared at her

eyes now tear less, body obedient, mind
blank- she sat down and gazed back-

movement two had begun-

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