Each month, write a new collection.
Lonely SailorThe maritime journeyTravels the milesTo a placeWhere wandering soulsGo into the bluest of polesThe lonely sailors journeyWith the hand of GodAnd His AspirationsAllows the manAccess intoThe unknownBy faith he conquersThe fear of deathTo return homeFrom the dangersOf oceanicDoubt
Great man! This works for the painting and beyond!
Courier of a distant epochAncient and SereneUnplundered by human impact.Untroubled by iphones selfiesContent to sing to the oceanTo turn with rhythmic waveTo laugh with passing porpoiseTo hide under thundercloud sky.Unthreatened by business tycoonsUnharried by modern viceSolid rock anchor withUnitive centered being.If I were to trespassWould I be ignored, laughed at or lostOr would you just silently watchAt my seafaring yellow slicker.
I love the conversation you're having here. Told completely from a modern POV!
Ice WorldNothing grows hereaccept the size of the icecoldit's always coldThe wind is stiffstealing my breath as it passesthiefthe wind is a thiefEverything's made of waterdifferent levels of fluidmotionthe landscape is in motionThe sky is cleara golden sun abovewarmit's the only thing that's warmSomehow there's lifeamidst a barren spacethriveonly the strongest will thrive
Love that! I love the way you set up repetition!
Church icebergsConnecticut depressed me so I made pictures of everything it wasn’t: The Andes for one, and then the icebergs —Remember how in Frankenstein the inventorPursues the creature or is it the other way around?The monstrous son following the monstrous father?Anyway it takes place on icebergs that whole sorry endingTo that strange story written at the outset of our modernAge. I suppose Shelley found England as depressing asConnecticut, which is why she travelled seeking mountainPeaks as escapes. Perhaps she discovered what I did -The stranger the picture your paint — the more itResembles you, the more it tells you about your own life.That doesn’t stop me from telling lies with pictures though.It shouldn’t stop you either.
Fantastic poem my friend!! I love the direct address at the end.
thank you sir! loving this new set of prompts.
Hi -- I see only the Obata mini-lecture here. wondering what happened to the one on Church.
Crap! Church is gone?
well he was, and then he came back! which is interesting.
The Iceberg, Frederic Church -For H.P. Lovecraft, Aleister Crowley, and L. Ron HubbardI can see Lovecraftdreaming of the darkness’demise— a finite shipcrashing into the permanent,with so much of the icestill hidden beneath the water.I can see Crowleypinning over the majesty,raw power— how in betterhands this cold islandcould be sculpted into a staircase,its top touching a new reality.I can see Hubbardnot believing nature could ordain this, this is the workof transdimensional beings,remnants from Earth’s origins— another ghost to be exorcised.
The core of the iceburg is solid and ancient and the edges glow blue and irregular at once the proud immensity obscures the future and swallows its surroundings and the sky is polluted brown and the waves are indigo black only the wood that creaks is warm and movement lives inside a billowing wind and it is the middle of the day containing time for steering hands at the helm and what of that hollow construction is intention afloat hapless or with confidence and does it have the mind to measure and the eyes to see
Well Sought Chalicethere are two vessels underweighfrom two different makers the wooden hull three mast heat seekerof fortune and discovery faces the unwholebust of ice berg hidden below the horizon crushingthis painting into two unequal half fields and in the under-seathe ship’s hull faintly masks its roll as a yawingdarker wedgedelta’d into this abyss that rollsit, and above the horizon line, the light arrows intothe water whirled the sky-plane the color of: the sailof the trod upon ice fortress and the bluing skin of both sailor and the struck wet land that heaves them of the shadow in the rifled snout of the long arms and the glintin the barbedharpoon and inside each of these twovessels there is a well sought chaliceone ofdissolution of the careless self worn unknown and seawardthrownthe other chalice full of the accretion of other selvesthe collection of goods for consumptionone lead by windlass and keel and hungerthe other crossingby ice veined current and heedless to self navigationto be stripped if unaware of its own valueand we some tide witnessto ones hidden calving witness to the other’s disembarkwith our mind a claw of ironcurled around a brush to repaint itattacking each canvaswith the birthing blood our caulhot like the tailpipe of our worktruck carving lifeinto the eyes of that ice fortressour sails blown fulljust some passerby.
tiny ship toweredover by small icebergin little oceaninsignificant planetspeck of solar system