My Madonna Lost
Flashing words once lit the page,
then dimmed and blurred away each day.
The flame, though weak, the muse remained,
to wane and burn out in the rain.
The stories of the streets,
the smoke,
rose amongst those lost who go,
down narrow roads, each alleyway,
is another story told.
The outcast men who coughing pass,
the shadows of some tragic past
downcast;
hands in their jeans, they see the ark,
of gasoline rainbows in the dark;
passing bums push rusted carts,
and artists with their beggars bowl;
they paint themselves into a hole—
a frame around them, and they’re trapped,
the page—
becomes the starving artists grave.
They may as well be lost at sea,
the lost Madonna theirs for free
as lost ships passed by in the streets
each other rarely seemed to see,
themselves an island in the stream—
Lost love passes by unseen,
déjà vu of some old dream;
when the night comes,
mute are the birds;
their mating songs above unheard.
Fleeting moments thrown away,
the drafts:
one after another—trash,
a pen in hand, still waiting, and,
on empty streets the gutters string,
There are no u-turns in a dream.
Were artists robots to convey,
their dreamlike musing during day,
with what they’ve seen,
and what they’ve heard:
The artist learned, if to return,
to the past and Eden save.
only to have to have a portrait
of lost paradise on page.
Something true, before the fall,
if only it'd be seen by all.
What is it for the writer, then—
oil on canvas with a pen>
The vibrant golden orange groves,
to only be transposed to prose,
and neatly filed away by page,
They the lost souls blindly stray,
into a self created maze,
they look and strive; they peek, they pine,
and yet they find no peace of mind.
There is no piece to find,
just daily drives, down memory lane,
still cradling the infant flame.
The silent highways dying pale
rose up from the streets a wail
the trash the cans the cups,
dying crying cigarette butts
stubbed out not needed, not enough
The Mona Lisa turns to dust;
and that lighthouse with no shore,
the light the beggars all strive for,
confused Arjuna in the war,
lost in the dreamscapes of the mind,
out of space and out of time.
Driving down the dusty roads,
music up and both eyes closed,
visions of Madonna,
of Loretta on the stairs—
her arms around the Christ child bare:
before her knelt two sinners lost in prayer.
And languid lays the muse,
the queen with golden hair:
holding a heart electric in the air.
A moment, just one minute please
From her hand the neon flame
was eaten by the Beast.
To search, our raison d'etre,
to wander is our creed.
Looking for nothing,
and in the end—
are shadows of the hollow men.
then dimmed and blurred away each day.
The flame, though weak, the muse remained,
to wane and burn out in the rain.
The stories of the streets,
the smoke,
rose amongst those lost who go,
down narrow roads, each alleyway,
is another story told.
The outcast men who coughing pass,
the shadows of some tragic past
downcast;
hands in their jeans, they see the ark,
of gasoline rainbows in the dark;
passing bums push rusted carts,
and artists with their beggars bowl;
they paint themselves into a hole—
a frame around them, and they’re trapped,
the page—
becomes the starving artists grave.
They may as well be lost at sea,
the lost Madonna theirs for free
as lost ships passed by in the streets
each other rarely seemed to see,
themselves an island in the stream—
Lost love passes by unseen,
déjà vu of some old dream;
when the night comes,
mute are the birds;
their mating songs above unheard.
Fleeting moments thrown away,
the drafts:
one after another—trash,
a pen in hand, still waiting, and,
on empty streets the gutters string,
There are no u-turns in a dream.
Were artists robots to convey,
their dreamlike musing during day,
with what they’ve seen,
and what they’ve heard:
The artist learned, if to return,
to the past and Eden save.
only to have to have a portrait
of lost paradise on page.
Something true, before the fall,
if only it'd be seen by all.
What is it for the writer, then—
oil on canvas with a pen>
The vibrant golden orange groves,
to only be transposed to prose,
and neatly filed away by page,
They the lost souls blindly stray,
into a self created maze,
they look and strive; they peek, they pine,
and yet they find no peace of mind.
There is no piece to find,
just daily drives, down memory lane,
still cradling the infant flame.
The silent highways dying pale
rose up from the streets a wail
the trash the cans the cups,
dying crying cigarette butts
stubbed out not needed, not enough
The Mona Lisa turns to dust;
and that lighthouse with no shore,
the light the beggars all strive for,
confused Arjuna in the war,
lost in the dreamscapes of the mind,
out of space and out of time.
Driving down the dusty roads,
music up and both eyes closed,
visions of Madonna,
of Loretta on the stairs—
her arms around the Christ child bare:
before her knelt two sinners lost in prayer.
And languid lays the muse,
the queen with golden hair:
holding a heart electric in the air.
A moment, just one minute please
From her hand the neon flame
was eaten by the Beast.
To search, our raison d'etre,
to wander is our creed.
Looking for nothing,
and in the end—
are shadows of the hollow men.