ASYLUM RHAPSODY

                                     
                   Asylum Rhapsody

as he stands
in his room
of his inferno,
his mind spins inward.
depression
stands with him
and wanders without sound,
bruising his eardrums
with deafening rhythms
of  solitude and suffering.

colors form
    upon his eyes,
dazzling with sensations
    in his heart.
moving patterns
race around
    the wilderness
of his head,
liberating
     confused recollections
from their trenches.
away they fly
scampering in the cloud
twisting through
the wrought-iron bars,
caressing the fragments
from the convulsive arrangement
        that protect him.
so when
        the crazy spindles break
he unfastens rage
from his paint,
but it sticks on
         with free will,
dancing in the confusion
and frolicking
on the fatalities
of his synaptic battles.

so he goes back to the window alone
       and paints
the starry night.


               this is realistic version (digital) of Van Gogh's "Starry Night"

BARNSTORMING

BARNSTORMING

they lift bats
pound their gloves
chew gum
wipe sweat off their foreheads
proud in their uniforms
overwhelming like ballerinas

they smile and fist pump
when scoring a run or making a play
shake their heads with a wrong call
Barnstorming Boys of summer
moving from town to town
sliding with the hot summer sun

the joy that came across their faces
when slamming the ball
over the fence
the grace how they catch the ball
run the bases
with dirty uniforms

I came early to love baseball
even as a ten year old
I knew how to swing a bat
catch and throw the ball
somehow learning by watching
Satchel and his Barnstorming boys of summer

MY BED

                                                           photo by Tracey Emin

I laid under my bed for a week
making jazz and poetry
depressed

ROOM 1403

                       

                                                photo Lee Plaza Hotel.by Bonnie Bleeccher

                 ROOM 1403

in that drunken room
where the pulled down curtains
would hide his gloom
as the flamingos danced

drinking with loneliness
where his psyche was senseless
and the whiskey made him wise
he sang with the angels

he always sat in his big chair
getting ready for the next one
always surprised with the laughter
from he room next door

he never turned on the TV
so he stared at the light bulb
remembering his younger days
with no concept of failure

he never spoke
as he talked with his poems
forgetting his assured success
would never make him rich

he had such great fun in that room
dancing with the flamingos
singing with the angels
staring  at the light bulb

and writing that last poem