tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-76939652802917505212024-03-05T07:51:52.231-08:00poga poetrymy original poetryWayne Pitchkohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15376196523487344143noreply@blogger.comBlogger270125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7693965280291750521.post-33527806936539966872018-04-02T22:40:00.000-07:002018-04-02T22:40:14.225-07:00Day 2 NaPoWriMo<br />
<br />
a decayed twig clutters<br />
the running creek ripples<br />
cedar branches stumbleWayne Pitchkohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15376196523487344143noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7693965280291750521.post-10312016105698192802018-04-02T22:32:00.000-07:002018-04-02T22:46:26.937-07:00For NaPoWriMo.....day 1 Easter Sunday<br />
<br />
celebrating new life<br />
nature awakens from March<br />
after a dark winter light will come backWayne Pitchkohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15376196523487344143noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7693965280291750521.post-17429373271567718232014-08-26T21:34:00.000-07:002014-08-26T21:34:28.338-07:00ASYLUM RHAPSODY <br />
Asylum Rhapsody<br />
<br />
as he stands <br />
in his room<br />
of his inferno,<br />
his mind spins inward.<br />
depression<br />
stands with him<br />
and wanders without sound,<br />
bruising his eardrums<br />
with deafening rhythms<br />
of solitude and suffering.<br />
<br />
colors form<br />
upon his eyes,<br />
dazzling with sensations<br />
in his heart.<br />
moving patterns<br />
race around<br />
the wilderness<br />
of his head,<br />
liberating<br />
confused recollections<br />
from their trenches.<br />
away they fly<br />
scampering in the cloud<br />
twisting through<br />
the wrought-iron bars,<br />
caressing the fragments<br />
from the convulsive arrangement<br />
that protect him.<br />
so when<br />
the crazy spindles break<br />
he unfastens rage<br />
from his paint,<br />
but it sticks on<br />
with free will,<br />
dancing in the confusion<br />
and frolicking<br />
on the fatalities<br />
of his synaptic battles.<br />
<br />
so he goes back to the window alone<br />
and paints<br />
the starry night.<br />
<br />
<br />
this is realistic version (digital) of Van Gogh's "Starry Night"<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH_-TwsLIfhJs7b4glTG_b7K2KvOGdrDj-x_iaGkxNzXVT6cyaF7ux_sP4u3ss4q9M6_wR2_AhBN3k4ZkqfXe1myIjcCG4cdifBYtz4t6-zgGrr3o3eanngGaxjRbZ4D2Ybm0ufrq37zFh/s1600/Starry+Night+by+alex+ruiz.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH_-TwsLIfhJs7b4glTG_b7K2KvOGdrDj-x_iaGkxNzXVT6cyaF7ux_sP4u3ss4q9M6_wR2_AhBN3k4ZkqfXe1myIjcCG4cdifBYtz4t6-zgGrr3o3eanngGaxjRbZ4D2Ybm0ufrq37zFh/s1600/Starry+Night+by+alex+ruiz.jpg" height="214" width="320" /></a></div>
Wayne Pitchkohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15376196523487344143noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7693965280291750521.post-76989796626670465902014-04-11T11:54:00.000-07:002014-04-11T11:54:38.341-07:00BARNSTORMING<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4-o8JZIhgljoWRXwDnmERtsQ52KgFd1HRAeA1JQWJY_xElRC8OFfXa6t13A6OCq4Mz0S9szgjTDaJEW9uZ9jpg0u6YtKE6l2phulbieBzSMaEn5oskXaWejzkPZyO_oyIaOwbna-wutsz/s1600/1946_paige_barnstorming.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4-o8JZIhgljoWRXwDnmERtsQ52KgFd1HRAeA1JQWJY_xElRC8OFfXa6t13A6OCq4Mz0S9szgjTDaJEW9uZ9jpg0u6YtKE6l2phulbieBzSMaEn5oskXaWejzkPZyO_oyIaOwbna-wutsz/s1600/1946_paige_barnstorming.jpg" height="251" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
BARNSTORMING<br />
<br />
they lift bats<br />
pound their gloves<br />
chew gum<br />
wipe sweat off their foreheads<br />
proud in their uniforms<br />
overwhelming like ballerinas<br />
<br />
they smile and fist pump<br />
when scoring a run or making a play<br />
shake their heads with a wrong call<br />
Barnstorming Boys of summer<br />
moving from town to town<br />
sliding with the hot summer sun<br />
<br />
the joy that came across their faces<br />
when slamming the ball<br />
over the fence<br />
the grace how they catch the ball<br />
run the bases<br />
with dirty uniforms<br />
<br />
I came early to love baseball<br />
even as a ten year old<br />
I knew how to swing a bat<br />
catch and throw the ball<br />
somehow learning by watching<br />
Satchel and his Barnstorming boys of summerWayne Pitchkohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15376196523487344143noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7693965280291750521.post-36828925702910230042014-03-23T15:25:00.000-07:002014-03-23T15:25:48.109-07:00MY BED<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx2b52pkteujnFHutxB6P06P78eWAcoJ174dMzTsie8bNcOCo_KHm3dcdmO-FlfQZGyfQa-7Ay_OjNZ5X6FSMctdNJ-zh80-adtACxYcrkORQ74KGglpBTSLmRbaYopNv2QCUlLIBKTVgL/s1600/emin+tracey+my+bed.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx2b52pkteujnFHutxB6P06P78eWAcoJ174dMzTsie8bNcOCo_KHm3dcdmO-FlfQZGyfQa-7Ay_OjNZ5X6FSMctdNJ-zh80-adtACxYcrkORQ74KGglpBTSLmRbaYopNv2QCUlLIBKTVgL/s1600/emin+tracey+my+bed.jpg" height="208" width="320" /></a></div>
photo by Tracey Emin<br />
<br />
I laid under my bed for a week<br />
making jazz and poetry<br />
depressed<br />
<br />Wayne Pitchkohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15376196523487344143noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7693965280291750521.post-89351599866254072332014-03-09T21:48:00.000-07:002014-03-09T21:48:01.721-07:00ROOM 1403<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhekALrmxicEIhMWKtGX-vw2wE4z2SCYlAlA6z5d8Jrn8mACxt2oIBbYTAwO0VUwcAh7Pc8LD5mSkleXUyg-6fmAcZYJc8rRDJmBVSjlFU8cqLg5Fh62Nc6Nyl5YBZENlxNX2gr21_SYNW-/s1600/Lee+Plaza+Hotel,+Detroit,+Bonnie+Beechler.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhekALrmxicEIhMWKtGX-vw2wE4z2SCYlAlA6z5d8Jrn8mACxt2oIBbYTAwO0VUwcAh7Pc8LD5mSkleXUyg-6fmAcZYJc8rRDJmBVSjlFU8cqLg5Fh62Nc6Nyl5YBZENlxNX2gr21_SYNW-/s1600/Lee+Plaza+Hotel,+Detroit,+Bonnie+Beechler.jpg" height="320" width="233" /></a></div>
<br />
photo Lee Plaza Hotel.by Bonnie Bleeccher<br />
<br />
ROOM 1403<br />
<br />
in that drunken room<br />
where the pulled down curtains<br />
would hide his gloom<br />
as the flamingos danced<br />
<br />
drinking with loneliness<br />
where his psyche was senseless<br />
and the whiskey made him wise<br />
he sang with the angels<br />
<br />
he always sat in his big chair<br />
getting ready for the next one<br />
always surprised with the laughter<br />
from he room next door<br />
<br />
he never turned on the TV<br />
so he stared at the light bulb<br />
remembering his younger days<br />
with no concept of failure<br />
<br />
he never spoke<br />
as he talked with his poems<br />
forgetting his assured success<br />
would never make him rich<br />
<br />
he had such great fun in that room<br />
dancing with the flamingos<br />
singing with the angels<br />
staring at the light bulb<br />
<br />
and writing that last poem<br />
<br />
<br />Wayne Pitchkohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15376196523487344143noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7693965280291750521.post-196542613835365722013-11-11T16:45:00.000-08:002013-11-11T16:45:16.466-08:00HAVANA DANCE<br />
her soul trembling and forlorn<br />
surrounded by cracked walls<br />
and salsa rhythms<br />
she sees his shadow<br />
<br />
driven by broken hearts<br />
encircled by gnarled beats<br />
and a lost lover<br />
she feels his shadow<br />
<br />
her soul tremulous and stiff<br />
enclosed by a rusty past<br />
and memories lost<br />
they dance<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiUaND84cW8F4W75rqLSWDOeROJ1dlNCxLptR_IXOtI_E99mT-nk_n79Q5Q8NvNkGzSBFhctkGsIwwvwpTiJ_XjIMJZ80qJ-h04DJvBlxLUnmDJFuyDHSMQh-QMIb4anprGlLAxTni3Qgu/s1600/Degas_Edgar_Danseuse_ajustant_sa_bretelle_n_gatif_1895_1896_.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiUaND84cW8F4W75rqLSWDOeROJ1dlNCxLptR_IXOtI_E99mT-nk_n79Q5Q8NvNkGzSBFhctkGsIwwvwpTiJ_XjIMJZ80qJ-h04DJvBlxLUnmDJFuyDHSMQh-QMIb4anprGlLAxTni3Qgu/s320/Degas_Edgar_Danseuse_ajustant_sa_bretelle_n_gatif_1895_1896_.jpg" width="238" /></a></div>
<br />
photo by Edgar Degas<br />
<br />
<br />
Wayne Pitchkohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15376196523487344143noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7693965280291750521.post-42109366264819466772013-09-08T21:21:00.000-07:002013-09-08T21:21:32.299-07:00PRAIRIE TRAIN<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3gyKKE1UiXwAJ0U1L7I_hG-8wu_p3zka2NB5FlkaDkiGg8kH5k56cSD7iVfHn62UHoipFp4zgDW3egiKSVOBb5NmIavUrsJgx7XZ8vY3xWefI57YS_HtwscJtvEjqBO8MrWeirU43wQsv/s1600/Rockwell,+Norman+boy-in-a-dining-car-1947.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3gyKKE1UiXwAJ0U1L7I_hG-8wu_p3zka2NB5FlkaDkiGg8kH5k56cSD7iVfHn62UHoipFp4zgDW3egiKSVOBb5NmIavUrsJgx7XZ8vY3xWefI57YS_HtwscJtvEjqBO8MrWeirU43wQsv/s320/Rockwell,+Norman+boy-in-a-dining-car-1947.jpg" width="271" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
PRAIRIE TRAIN<br />
<br />
The white train comes from a dark tunnel<br />
of rocky mountains with its covering of snow.<br />
The white train looks as though it has just escaped<br />
from the jaws of darkness. The white train steams<br />
from the mountains into the flat<br />
prairie, yielding the fresh seeds around it.<br />
<br />
The horizon is exalted. Ancient plains.<br />
Whole sections never to have been farmed.<br />
Over there the strong arms of farmers who<br />
stand in little groups. You cannot see<br />
warriors or lost faces. Cattlemen at a distance.<br />
On their way to a roundup maybe.<br />
<br />
In the dining car, behind the hardwood door...<br />
breakfast cereal and berries, cold juice<br />
and a smile. Already this morning<br />
the chef has prepared breakfast for twelve<br />
while tracking the prairies; the formal <br />
waiter never spills a drop only smiles.<br />
<br />
A clean white napkin sits on the table<br />
like a small mountain ready to fall. Suddenly<br />
the train brakes and stops. The boy and waiter<br />
peer through the window with wonderment<br />
as they see the farmers with silver scythes<br />
ordering them off the train, into the prairie.<br />
<br />Wayne Pitchkohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15376196523487344143noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7693965280291750521.post-8225025241979111452013-09-04T20:39:00.000-07:002013-09-08T19:17:58.660-07:00RECLUSE<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr1VSHvG2aqqKNFAkbU_gw4ZwhUuJAs9NoqB-s27lVPvKUB9iyb_qlp38dIKyUK9uVQ6IFyEeQpW_CGMtUrrTlbB_kKDeUoIwTWqLPpgXSesAi7_D-Thjs-dWWRrmJCoixR2jDYQB5P__C/s1600/Jeanie+Tomanek.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr1VSHvG2aqqKNFAkbU_gw4ZwhUuJAs9NoqB-s27lVPvKUB9iyb_qlp38dIKyUK9uVQ6IFyEeQpW_CGMtUrrTlbB_kKDeUoIwTWqLPpgXSesAi7_D-Thjs-dWWRrmJCoixR2jDYQB5P__C/s320/Jeanie+Tomanek.jpg" width="235" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
RECLUSE<br />
<br />
with the shell of memories inwardly held<br />
she once was approachable<br />
ever captivating like frozen rain<br />
her problem is what will come next<br />
being alone is not easy<br />
<br />
her soul has hardened<br />
now petrified of other people<br />
even those who love her<br />
so she escapes from them<br />
being alone is not easy<br />
<br />
she likes nothing more than a sip of tea<br />
so she can forget the dizzy race<br />
and search for the stars in the sky<br />
instead of watching old movies<br />
being alone is not easy<br />
<br />
buried deep beneath her brooding soul<br />
remembering her life as a tale of misfortunes<br />
and finding solace in self pity<br />
she sees herself as a victim<br />
being alone is not easy<br />
<br />
thinking it best not to deal with details<br />
she has difficulty with simple things<br />
paralyzed by her will not to change<br />
she feels good to be sad<br />
being aloneWayne Pitchkohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15376196523487344143noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7693965280291750521.post-84885053879121784902013-08-25T20:36:00.000-07:002016-05-14T21:11:02.171-07:00HIGHWAY OF TEARS<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_vPkCfLN8Mo3FWUDffSEv0qyKwK_TcDA_mMlbncOHEwrikRJkenKgGQrhMZpNz5t3smmr6yzktBIn-oYKvS57p9LX8VDNK4F05YikRq2alJpebeyWwo0t8KsEDREp4JO-8M91BwfJBgNa/s1600/passing+place+steven+kelly.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_vPkCfLN8Mo3FWUDffSEv0qyKwK_TcDA_mMlbncOHEwrikRJkenKgGQrhMZpNz5t3smmr6yzktBIn-oYKvS57p9LX8VDNK4F05YikRq2alJpebeyWwo0t8KsEDREp4JO-8M91BwfJBgNa/s320/passing+place+steven+kelly.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
HIGHWAY OF TEARS<br />
<br />
they walked this highway to no end<br />
up North, a place buses neglect<br />
hitching rides with their fears<br />
where the beast preys on the desperate<br />
<br />
the dark clouds covered them in mystery<br />
with the falling rain waiting<br />
as angels weep for the brave<br />
and the beast preys for the desperate<br />
<br />
this endless highway of tears<br />
standing at the edge of somewhere<br />
should be leading towards the light<br />
towards a saviour without a dead end<br />
as the falling rain drowns the beast<br />
<br />
<br />
this photo by Steven Kelly reminded me of HIGHWAY 16 in Northern British Columbia<br />
...known as the Highway of Tears...since 1974, 20 or more young women or girls have either <br />
been murdered or gone missing along this highway.....MOSTLY aboriginal. This has been<br />
horrible...and for the most part police and authorities just didn't care....anyways this is the<br />
poem I wrote....as many of us have cared and still care.Wayne Pitchkohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15376196523487344143noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7693965280291750521.post-27388373888568935142013-08-16T21:25:00.000-07:002013-08-16T21:25:59.284-07:00SILENCE<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDYkO29OGF6VLiyytAWLreVJoRTkoiZqXKTydGrS9OPdPNYhy12hPwFFwLcf-REUzGzdM3_2xaLlqRQTcOKNnSRN4jqiS7WvfcBJouYAX0xZYBLkXSumNE0tF5QpbFDUIMEyA5uGZ_Q2p_/s1600/Foothills+%239+(SOLD)+(2)....jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="218" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDYkO29OGF6VLiyytAWLreVJoRTkoiZqXKTydGrS9OPdPNYhy12hPwFFwLcf-REUzGzdM3_2xaLlqRQTcOKNnSRN4jqiS7WvfcBJouYAX0xZYBLkXSumNE0tF5QpbFDUIMEyA5uGZ_Q2p_/s320/Foothills+%239+(SOLD)+(2)....jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
original painting by Wayne<br />
<br />
beside the timeless moment of silence<br />
I saw eternity. I saw the abode of angels.<br />
nothing was happening. the events of<br />
a billion years ago were just as ghostly and<br />
ungraspable as this moment or a billion<br />
years from now, or the moments of the next four<br />
minutes. perfectly imperfect emptiness<br />
of silver solitude....there were no questions<br />
of not being alive or being alive, of dislikes or<br />
likes, of taste or no taste, of not hearing or hearing,<br />
of not far or far, of not seeing or seeing, of giving<br />
or not giving without judgements.<br />
<br />
beside the timeless moment of silence<br />
I saw clarity with confusion. the house of roses<br />
standing in the wind. the events of <br />
tomorrow will change just as phantom and<br />
ungraspable as this moment or a billion<br />
years from now, or the moments of the past four<br />
minutes. refreshingly cool, empty from the silver<br />
filled with solitude....there were no questions<br />
of here or there, of up and<br />
down, of believing or not believing,<br />
with the sun on my eyelids telling me<br />
where I came from and where I was returning.<br />
<br />
<br />
Wayne Pitchkohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15376196523487344143noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7693965280291750521.post-16914240094238521632013-03-17T19:06:00.000-07:002013-03-17T19:06:55.285-07:00STRUGGLE<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR9f9_KDJ1kvuZFppjfPUhzTCbWrlunnC7kCk5LYnFk8AU5q_a5k61899rFMN3ekR1QqU7OYm_n2l72rLXhCBRKK8fHsKUJEHzB_DVvxnimRhgrkn53xK7OfjUqYeHyO7akbHeL-2NHyjD/s1600/Picasso+faun-horse-and-bird-1936.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="257" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR9f9_KDJ1kvuZFppjfPUhzTCbWrlunnC7kCk5LYnFk8AU5q_a5k61899rFMN3ekR1QqU7OYm_n2l72rLXhCBRKK8fHsKUJEHzB_DVvxnimRhgrkn53xK7OfjUqYeHyO7akbHeL-2NHyjD/s320/Picasso+faun-horse-and-bird-1936.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
STRUGGLE<br />
<br />
<br />
there is a struggle going on<br />
in some distant land<br />
a place where good and evil<br />
take the final stand<br />
the evil fight for their cause<br />
with their dark forces<br />
but the raven has the power<br />
of the last flight<br />
<br />
as the horns surface<br />
from below hell<br />
will they crush the good?<br />
only the future will know<br />
or will the raven triumph evil?<br />
before taking up in flight<br />
will light break through the dark?<br />
you decide<br />
<br />Wayne Pitchkohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15376196523487344143noreply@blogger.com25tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7693965280291750521.post-71364063875860912742013-03-15T21:08:00.000-07:002013-03-15T22:48:41.612-07:00HAVANA RUMBA<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGPHgAlvGBN4MAm0se950NT-oRDi4Ht05GB8qzCyXIvTvndUKcgtDE6tmYQHOfmbkDP-mAWpA0P6teV4vCim6HY9mdcHcGSzrK52k1SJMz2EibxopRM9DJdwRdUk0iteW18aR0gavq6dUP/s1600/P1100875.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGPHgAlvGBN4MAm0se950NT-oRDi4Ht05GB8qzCyXIvTvndUKcgtDE6tmYQHOfmbkDP-mAWpA0P6teV4vCim6HY9mdcHcGSzrK52k1SJMz2EibxopRM9DJdwRdUk0iteW18aR0gavq6dUP/s320/P1100875.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
HAVANA RUMBA<br />
<br />
<br />
amongst the crumbling infrastructure<br />
funky street murals and psychedelic art<br />
where dazzling has replaced the dismal<br />
interlocking drum patterns, rhythmic chants<br />
powerful enough to awaken the spirit of Orishas<br />
<br />
moving to the pyrotechnic explosion<br />
of music and poetry<br />
enticing like hurricane Sandy<br />
<br />
magic steps transformed by the spirits of Sunday rum<br />
in Hamel's Alley<br />
a surreal experience of raw creativity<br />
celebrating Afro-Cuban culture<br />
he dances barefoot unnoticed<br />
moments of being<br />
<br />
<br />
Callejon de Hamel (Hamel's Alley) in Havana..every Sunday afternoon<br />
<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
<br />Wayne Pitchkohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15376196523487344143noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7693965280291750521.post-60909141729836093462013-03-03T22:48:00.000-08:002013-03-03T22:48:05.234-08:00Miss Lonely<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEGElMfIgFBDtmwuZqSlwK3AXpt5dMFHN_t8MWw1ugX0VtGlBN2TL_S9TdU4KZHGPV0jL0OpIo0qDuhMtot1QCgTnGUwjZkqv_lzZ2zT-VPkryZUEe6_xRUIRFhLrjSAbRuuqDsNyEHtZv/s1600/thefoxandtheraven.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEGElMfIgFBDtmwuZqSlwK3AXpt5dMFHN_t8MWw1ugX0VtGlBN2TL_S9TdU4KZHGPV0jL0OpIo0qDuhMtot1QCgTnGUwjZkqv_lzZ2zT-VPkryZUEe6_xRUIRFhLrjSAbRuuqDsNyEHtZv/s320/thefoxandtheraven.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
MISS LONELY<br />
<br />
Today Miss Lonely comes to me,<br />
wearing a silk blouse, lorgnettes and buttons,<br />
and a rose in the waves of her flounces.<br />
Today the mutable miss is friendship<br />
and slowly strokes my heart<br />
with her thin petal of frost.<br />
So, today, I politely ask you to walk with me<br />
through the garden to the flowery courtyard<br />
of that rose the parents planted.<br />
Today dreams are like mold on the side of the wall,<br />
painting the chasm of love,<br />
melancholic, faint, dim sky.<br />
<br />
She moves towards me, she moves ever so slowly.<br />
She moves in a bright dance, the stage.<br />
I give over my respect and now I soar.<br />
Hawk, it shakes the boat slow like the net,<br />
in the soft wind, child of the blue.<br />
<br />
Yes, melancholy, mute lover,<br />
yesterday's faithful lover.<br />
Yes, melancholy, blessed lover,<br />
your enjoyment always takes me.<br />
Yes, melancholy, woman of existence,<br />
lips which come back like the tide.<br />
Yes, melancholy, flower of my mouth,<br />
speak who can love me.<br />
<br />
Today Miss Lonely comes to me,<br />
wearing a silk blouse, lorgnettes and buttons,<br />
and a rose in the waves of her flounces.<br />
Today the mutable miss is friendship<br />
and slowly strokes my heart<br />
with her thin petal of frost.<br />
So, today,<br />
yes, melancholy, lady of existence,<br />
lips which come back like the tide.<br />
Yes, melancholy, flower of my life,<br />
tell me who can love me.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Wayne Pitchkohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15376196523487344143noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7693965280291750521.post-25974680683190856402013-02-21T13:22:00.000-08:002013-02-21T13:22:19.332-08:00CANDY KISSES<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
<br />
CANDY KISSES<br />
<br />
full moon. dark sky.<br />
french window open wide:<br />
other barriers between us<br />
endless, invisible.<br />
on a threshold<br />
as the window closes upon the night,<br />
dreaming, striped lips, moonlight.<br />
candy kisses.<br />
<br />Wayne Pitchkohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15376196523487344143noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7693965280291750521.post-9904521534936195952013-02-14T17:08:00.000-08:002013-02-14T17:12:56.916-08:00 SACRIFICE<br />
SACRIFICE<br />
<br />
once beyond time in the darkness of night<br />
lives a beauty and a beast,<br />
<br />
to both; see beauty,<br />
to both; see beast,<br />
<br />
there lie many evil spirits;<br />
between their hearts,<br />
<br />
their thoughts shake from secrets;<br />
of untold silent emotion,<br />
<br />
they see each other as their own love,<br />
but lovers are free and tied to none,<br />
<br />
within the silence, a soft voice shouts,<br />
"I am your mirror but beware,<br />
a reflection is a false belief."<br />
<br />
an emphatic echo deep below the tree sighs,<br />
"I am your soul, I hope for your growth,<br />
in your sorrow I melt; in your love I lie.<br />
<br />
within your heart; mine will beat,<br />
in your feelings, lies my touch,<br />
I am only a deception of your memory,<br />
grasp on to nothing, give your soul freedom,<br />
<br />
because I can't be either with or without;<br />
the nature of life,<br />
<br />
looking over you; resembling your shadow;<br />
beyond the light of the stars and sun ,<br />
in darkness when the moon hides behind clouds,<br />
always there only as far as I can go."<br />
<br />
the storms cry again, breathing silence,<br />
until only a barrier of air remains,<br />
<br />
the spirits perform gypsy dances,<br />
to the rhythmic wind;<br />
of a sacrifice; oblivious to all.<br />
<br />
<br />
a poem written for Poetry Jam...prompt, Sacrifices<br />
WWP...........prompt, how a fairy tale begins<br />
<br />
<br />Wayne Pitchkohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15376196523487344143noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7693965280291750521.post-934323319523119112013-02-11T19:34:00.000-08:002013-02-11T19:36:44.881-08:00SEALED<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivS9bNsuiuuFr_8bGgWvS7oaoVZML0SVd0NI3CmLbh37ANdQ2rKiHP8ealhosfV5TY9CyuuNeDtgBDkSdi9MLFFnr5XftbmQ5_SSQLnugzoZZ7ML4Td9SLqSD2FIa3mN-FBSS-H-h17aGP/s1600/lorusso,+joseph.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivS9bNsuiuuFr_8bGgWvS7oaoVZML0SVd0NI3CmLbh37ANdQ2rKiHP8ealhosfV5TY9CyuuNeDtgBDkSdi9MLFFnr5XftbmQ5_SSQLnugzoZZ7ML4Td9SLqSD2FIa3mN-FBSS-H-h17aGP/s320/lorusso,+joseph.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
SEALED<br />
<br />
Her lips, envelope points.<br />
Sealed corners. Emotions<br />
folded tightly. Softly she smiles;<br />
yesterday hides behind her lips.<br />
<br />
Slender tapered fingers; tugging<br />
and holding. Arms harmonizing with <br />
motion, waltzing past hot air.<br />
Vapour surrounds her in hot shadows.<br />
<br />
Jazz music. Lipstick; drawing her<br />
darkness into sin, breathing, wanting<br />
forgiveness. Her words wave like<br />
lips drying. Hair hangs<br />
smoldering in heat. Showers fire cold<br />
bodies. A saxophone plays her song.<br />
<br />Wayne Pitchkohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15376196523487344143noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7693965280291750521.post-25548943006621683612013-02-06T18:42:00.000-08:002013-02-06T18:44:49.771-08:00HOMELESS MAN<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
HOMELESS MAN<br />
<br />
yes <br />
the homeless man always arrives<br />
with his tools<br />
to loosen the hatreds<br />
and tighten the loves.<br />
always<br />
the old man arrives,<br />
always eager<br />
with a smile on his face<br />
ready to fix the broken.<br />
<br />
always,<br />
separating bottles from here,<br />
garbage from there,<br />
working hard.<br />
always he goes<br />
this old man<br />
changing dirt into gold.<br />
<br />
always<br />
he arrives in the back lane<br />
where the power<br />
that shines the light is found.<br />
and always there<br />
he does his work<br />
the fixer of dreams.<br />
<br />
yes<br />
the homeless man always arrives<br />
up to the person,<br />
up the people,<br />
up to the sky.<br />
always <br />
the old man arrives<br />
and from that time<br />
silence ends<br />
and singing begins.<br />
<br />
<br />Wayne Pitchkohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15376196523487344143noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7693965280291750521.post-19429593276196506462013-01-28T21:35:00.000-08:002013-03-02T13:09:27.696-08:00SWEET JANE<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
<br />
SWEET JANE<br />
<br />
<br />
sitting on her <strong>VELVET</strong> chair<br />
above the surreal life of a rock star<br />
beneath the dark metallic sky<br />
where life is an old vinyl record<br />
hung up on Lou Reed<br />
who groans with a grimacing tone<br />
<br />
sitting with a symposium of ambitions<br />
above the translation of ideas<br />
beneath the cryptic polluted star<br />
where the hissing vinyl scratches<br />
the nonconforming truths of Lou<br />
who pops sentiment with danger<br />
<br />
sitting with her blue eyes winking<br />
above the pain of the <strong>UNDERGROUND</strong><br />
beneath the apologizing clouds<br />
where warped records skip<br />
and repeat the same line<br />
Sweet Jane<br />
<br />
<br />Wayne Pitchkohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15376196523487344143noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7693965280291750521.post-72631527564979189262013-01-17T12:17:00.000-08:002013-01-17T12:24:51.192-08:00FORGOTTEN MEMORIES<br />
I awakened one morning<br />
forgetting the future<br />
remembering the past<br />
where everything was smeared<br />
<br />
there was the dingy beer parlour<br />
where everyone drank by themselves<br />
wept because they forgot their memory<br />
drank because beer replaced money<br />
<br />
there was the misplaced priorities<br />
mixed with bizarre value judgements<br />
silenced by knowing the futility of all<br />
strangled by the opportunities lost<br />
<br />
there was the sad death of becoming a poet<br />
dictated by drinking of the punditocracy<br />
creating art without understanding it<br />
cursed by the absurdity in the average drunk<br />
<br />
sitting by a window in the corner<br />
where words <span style="background-color: white;">could</span> fill my empty glass<br />
dying for a beer<br />
a skid road poet waiting to be publishedWayne Pitchkohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15376196523487344143noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7693965280291750521.post-65706228938375685962012-12-31T20:55:00.000-08:002016-05-14T20:29:42.534-07:00WHISKEY AND CIGARETTES WHISKEY and CIGARETTES<br />
somewhere at a rusty table<br />
a poet sits,<br />
shaking her hands at what she sees.<br />
a bottle of cheap whisky is open,<br />
with ashes on her lap<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqA7uBDnq5vCAfqol8UEpWt3XegwMIDf3jSulC6nI-Z_KXhEusj2ZgI2mFEb6hIpYDmgjcmQ41IYJ9C_jzyThpNVyqK-8cO3Bi_J8hymY5C9TROqSC5m3MakrpkDEO1ulX0STlHVknHsHb/s1600/stainforth+cigarettes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a>listening to gypsy jazz.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqA7uBDnq5vCAfqol8UEpWt3XegwMIDf3jSulC6nI-Z_KXhEusj2ZgI2mFEb6hIpYDmgjcmQ41IYJ9C_jzyThpNVyqK-8cO3Bi_J8hymY5C9TROqSC5m3MakrpkDEO1ulX0STlHVknHsHb/s1600/stainforth+cigarettes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqA7uBDnq5vCAfqol8UEpWt3XegwMIDf3jSulC6nI-Z_KXhEusj2ZgI2mFEb6hIpYDmgjcmQ41IYJ9C_jzyThpNVyqK-8cO3Bi_J8hymY5C9TROqSC5m3MakrpkDEO1ulX0STlHVknHsHb/s320/stainforth+cigarettes.jpg" width="320" /></a><br />
it has got cold inside<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqA7uBDnq5vCAfqol8UEpWt3XegwMIDf3jSulC6nI-Z_KXhEusj2ZgI2mFEb6hIpYDmgjcmQ41IYJ9C_jzyThpNVyqK-8cO3Bi_J8hymY5C9TROqSC5m3MakrpkDEO1ulX0STlHVknHsHb/s1600/stainforth+cigarettes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a>so she lights up another.<br />
a turtle moves slowly<br />
towards the heat. Tomorrow<br />
she will write all day, and then<br />
go dancing, but tonite<br />
she translates bad poetry<br />
and it makes her cry.<br />
the ashes notice and smoulder.<br />
the turtle doesn't care.<br />
she pours herself more whiskey<br />
and thinks of the mountains<br />
where coyotes come down at night<br />
to gobble the turtles.<br />
she doesn't hear sounds of help<br />
so ignores them. she flings<br />
the bottle at the floor,<br />
turns the jukebox up, closes<br />
her eyes and lights up another.Wayne Pitchkohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15376196523487344143noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7693965280291750521.post-6214808663541977222012-12-12T14:33:00.000-08:002012-12-12T14:33:04.715-08:00POET'S LIFEI sit here in my studio<br />
the room of my life<br />
sitting in complete blindness<br />
with blank verse and forgotten words<br />
where dust clings to yesterday<br />
<br />
unable to give up my innocent past<br />
or the dreams wearing new costumes<br />
suffering with eyeballs that never open<br />
like wall sockets without power<br />
beating to the beats of my soul<br />
<br />
compelled to listen to yesterday forgotten<br />
where nothing is what it seemed to be<br />
offering windows of light and laughter<br />
without conversations with my thoughts<br />
never fearing death only endless nights<br />
<br />
exhausted with the exertion of a poet<br />
where words sit alone in prison<br />
tumbling towards an empty page<br />
I remain invisible to the world<br />
opening the gates to another poem<br />
Wayne Pitchkohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15376196523487344143noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7693965280291750521.post-7066390071506585872012-12-02T20:10:00.000-08:002012-12-02T20:11:54.436-08:00EYE OF A POET<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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her eye cannot see the color of sound<br />
or the times lost and found<br />
can she see the face of the hawk<br />
echoing the ticking of the clock<br />
<br />
can she see the words behind the time<br />
spoken incantations that never rhyme<br />
spinning sounds ear to ear<br />
can she see things only the poet can hear<br />
<br />
can she see the dark sky becoming blue<br />
or write blank verse for you<br />
can she see the smells always hidden<br />
or poems to be forbidden<br />
<br />
because everything is in the mind's eye<br />
where unseen memories hide<br />
<br />
her eye closes behind the scenes<br />
look closely my friend<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Wayne Pitchkohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15376196523487344143noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7693965280291750521.post-28430814650542647592012-11-27T17:05:00.000-08:002012-11-27T19:02:10.058-08:00FRIDA'S CHAIR.......(Frida Khalo)this is how it ended-<br />
me sitting in my chair<br />
while the windows shatter,<br />
my body shining with amnion,<br />
flashes of lightning.<br />
<br />
and the glass keeps on breaking<br />
as I slip out of my body.<br />
<br />
my life prances on the rough surface<br />
where plaster cracks.<br />
<br />
the sky opens<br />
and I fly out on fire.<br />
<br />
rain enters me like nails. I have a vapour scarf.<br />
<br />
I sit erect as the moon's beams hold me.<br />
<br />
ice, you are a frozen wedding-dress<br />
I slide over my head, welcoming my death.<br />
<br />
I wear you dearly as I ignite-<br />
don't let me come back.<br />
<br />
........having just returned from Mexico City and spening time at Frida Khalo's house/studio...inspired by her and Diego Rivera<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjHUOncY1hJPeDILj4ykc-aUG5L8fMb-gvDf_ULQsieQEmU4iyodRZtGLCcrImfWGLMTC6KKu1CD89GWnkMhkToY0aZc5SsahIaUjPiOdb2ACXYJKeSP3uhAjWNbTpfAXvi87SV2Qsgv9w/s1600/Red-Chair.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjHUOncY1hJPeDILj4ykc-aUG5L8fMb-gvDf_ULQsieQEmU4iyodRZtGLCcrImfWGLMTC6KKu1CD89GWnkMhkToY0aZc5SsahIaUjPiOdb2ACXYJKeSP3uhAjWNbTpfAXvi87SV2Qsgv9w/s320/Red-Chair.jpg" tea="true" width="320" /></a></div>
Wayne Pitchkohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15376196523487344143noreply@blogger.com22tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7693965280291750521.post-9728482961198344342012-09-24T13:05:00.000-07:002012-09-24T13:05:13.265-07:00FLYING COLOURS<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2xRLvdtixtJlsFc-ONkYLiKUJqE0swPt5xWExd5rggI_obmh9-jKJF_Or-kDEn1RNY6cEN0JZ_bUGsM_FXKNagIbt2frZKur2M6WM_AlyeTIRfYBwsyiArBw_VxemfHHzzsElPsM7ZlkJ/s1600/salle,+david,+flying+down+2006.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" hea="true" height="232" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2xRLvdtixtJlsFc-ONkYLiKUJqE0swPt5xWExd5rggI_obmh9-jKJF_Or-kDEn1RNY6cEN0JZ_bUGsM_FXKNagIbt2frZKur2M6WM_AlyeTIRfYBwsyiArBw_VxemfHHzzsElPsM7ZlkJ/s320/salle,+david,+flying+down+2006.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
every day she stood in her coloured studio<br />
looking at the colors coming down<br />
and the plane she couldn't reach<br />
leaving it with the presence of absence<br />
<br />
with despair in every unused color<br />
green fading to green then green<br />
black to black then black<br />
and the plane waiting for Van Gogh yellow<br />
<br />
seeing the dreams she wanted to paint<br />
she plucked the colors from the air<br />
with the shadows on their enigma<br />
falling to the blue painters flesh<br />
<br />
slowly twirling to the eternal cracks and space<br />
towards some slow chamber below<br />
her skin feeling the sensations of falling pigment<br />
flying to a new colour field<br />
<br />
Wayne Pitchkohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15376196523487344143noreply@blogger.com9