Assembling Thunder (Revolution)

Naked minds burning under smoldering books, kissed by revolution
Not far off, the working man cries revolution! Rise,
Rise with raised fists — A child now a soldier: revolution is strong
And the world will be watching, from empty seats
And not watching, as bodies tumble, one against the other.

Naked vessels, devoid of belief, rise
The little drops of sweat course into rivers of placenta,
An aborted generation curls into smoke that drifts
Into newly built empires, pyramids of glistening bones.

Oh, an uncensored sound escapes;
The rally of the nonexistent soul against tyranny
The passionate cry, of a poet’s naked mind, burning.

Ashen faces, hands and lips whisper revolution
Wander over all the earth, assembling thunder
Rise! Oh, may freedom never dissolve into acrid smoke.

Lynn Mari, ©2007

Written for a writing challenge on Pablo Neruda.
Thought this poem could also commerate the end of Castro’s reign of terror. Pray for the people of Cuba. Viva!

“Oh, may your silhouette never dissolve on the beach…” — Pablo Neruda

Conversations in a Gallery (An Artist with his Creations)

The world is a gallery, subject to artistic vision
Light, line and color are brought to form through fission:

Son I got somethin’ to say
Who you callin’ son, you were sketched only today!
Don’t get cocky because the tatoo,
and the mean mug I was given by you
Such attitude I should erase…
But you spent so much time on the planes of my face,
Just a minute, the sun is a hot behind my head
If you could draw a few more leaves instead
I’d appreciate a ‘lil shade
Sure homes, consider it made.

Don’t forget the chica in green
I’m not a beauty but I dream of being queen
I could have been Top Model if I didn’t look so tired!
I admit, against you I conspired
To be different from the rest,
With wit and wisdom I’d consider you blessed
Oh please, I will never get a look from the fellas
If I were any flatter the walls would be jealous!
I’m the artist, you can’t change what I have decided
So between beauty and wit you will remain divided.

I sped through Jacksontown, singing to the Wolf and sippin’ wine
Honk, honk I hit an elephant crossin’ Highway 49
I can’t believe, a Goth cartoon singing the blues!
Honk, Honk? The motorcycle must’ve blew a fuse?
Or maybe the eyes are too red?
No wonder Goth boy hit an elephant, was knocked on the head
What a mess, all the blood splattered on the wall
Though the wheels were spinnin’, I did not fall
I gotta see Highway 49
and will draw that next time!

In a gallery haunted by inspiration
An artist sketches his next creation
Past the mind, he views life in various colors and forms
Then, on canvas, stretches reality beyond its norms.

Lynn Mari, ©2008.

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Inspired By: Marcus, digital artist
M-12 Fundamentalist: http://www.eltania.net/m12/

The Howlin’ Wolf Site: http://www.howlinwolf.com/