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Posts Tagged ‘circus’

They are silent, yes, they are silent.

I imagine them talking on corners

sounding like the bees ready to sting.

And the beehive is ripe and heavy

with gossip running over like honey.

 

The audience, they lined up like stones-

incensed hot coals ready to be casted

and thrown at statues and pillars

breaking under the weight of judgment.

 

They are silent, yes, they are silent.

A mockery of sorts, they like the show.

Shadow puppets will scream and whistle.

They are victims to a phantom in a circus

and worship the magician with words.

 

I wish the sword will tangle with tongues,

lacerate the innards and spill the beans.

I wish the fish will bite the bait

and see the hook clasp hard the mouth

to stop fishy things from overflowing.

 

They are silent, yes, they are silent.

The blind is not actually blind

but open eyes would like to see illusions.

They have ears but do not want to hear

truth as sharp at its double edges.

 

Applause will fly like white doves

for the trick and the disguise deceives

the gullible and naivete. Silent ones

whose ignorance excuses no one.

They are silent, yes, they are silent.

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Pensive as I was in this lazy afternoon.  Looking out in the window and the hazy light filtered through. Sending dust like a strobe of crystals. I stared. Just stared for the longest time.

The muse didn’t come as I expected.  Like an acrylic tube on the verge of squeezing out  of its contents, I just stared coldly. Nothing spectacular. The portrait on this blank canvas are just collections of imaginary lines and some vague illusions on my mind. And build a colony of dots. Like Van Gogh.

I could paint of scribblings out of nothingness. And my thoughts wander  into wide spaces. And wanders still. I see only spatters of red, black and white against this concrete grayness. Of anger splashing buckets of paint into surface. Like Pollack. 

I could paint the sky blue if I want to.  I can make the leaves of the trees rustle and sway with the winds.  I can make a brook  serenely flow through underneath a little wooden bridge. I can make distant hills fade into indigo. Like Monet.

I could paint a man without a face. And apples falling like raindrops. And doves flying.  The tragedy, the pessimism and idiosyncrasy of a human being. And a dark world encapsuled into an umbrella, black and mysterious. Like Magritte.

I could paint a typewriter with keypads of pain. And some melted clocks. Of swans reflecting elephants. And the gory details of death. Of treachery of reason. Of denouncing fascism. And bizarre existence of realities.  Like Dali.

I could use color yellow and orange interspersed with black squares, sharp angles, cubes and rectilinear forms in human subjects. Of some gothic revivals. Of somber shades of blue and blue green. I can use pink painted into some circus scenes. Of collages with pieces of everyday things. Like Picasso.

The brush is waiting to be lifted.  The easel is upright and ready.  The mixing palette is parched. The canvas is already stretched out to its frame. The sketchbook is laden with unfinished illustrations and  images, waiting to come alive. Where freedom is knocking on this soul’s threshold. 

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