Tag Archives: Creator-God

DRUMS

 

And let's all get high striking the innocent drums... (source: goodmanlivingwell)

[And let’s all get high striking the innocent drums… (source: goodmanlivingwell)]

The skin stretched taut
It then speaks of things beyond it

The artist grabs it with both arms
With the force of pleading
Strikes it across the face
He begs the drum to speak
The drum speaks then loftily
As if of its own accord
As if it had a choice
It cries out in a tune too high
The tighter the skin is stretched
The greater the pain it suffers
The louder and finer the cries
With masochistic ecstasy

We then hear these cries and are happy
We put the dance to our feet
And pride ourselves like connoisseurs
Of musical sadism
A primal form of art
Of which
We are all artists
And we delight in pain
Whether when inflicted on us
And we dance in self-pity
Or sweet vengeful bitterness
Or when others around us suffer
And we gather round the table
To feast on the delicious degradation of others’ misfortunes
We express an unknown sort of disgust or shock
At some scandal
Oh the thrill we feel all the way
When we make drums of others

Even the innocent little kid is already being initiated into the art. (source: smithsonianmag.com)

 

[Even the innocent little kid is already being initiated into the art. (source: smithsonianmag.com)]

Carry your troop away
I want none of you
Don’t disturb this lonesome artist
Lounging out peacefully
On his rooftop
Where he has placed a mat
For him to lie stretched out skin-bare
Light-brown leather
Just another drum
But in the arms of a Creator
Kind and merciful unlike all these I see
And don’t you dare call me irritable
Just because I can’t dance to your sick tune.
_____________________________________________

BACKGROUND: Please, if I may very mildly say, I am not a fan of how ingeniously cruel we can be as humans when we delight in the suffering of people. Sadly, this does not exempt the seemingly nice ones at times when they have reacted in apparent horror at another’s misfortune. Meanwhile, underneath are all sorts of feelings and thoughts they would not be exactly proud of if shown clearly.
So, let none tag me along in these discussions. I’ll be sure to spoil the fun for you. Don’t worry, I won’t mind when you all turn your appetites towards the “misfit” in the comment thread, away from the true victims who need more from you than your clichéd expressions of mock shock, which seem to be ALL you would have to offer.

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Art Games: Spirits On Mortals

A glass of milk Français : Un verre de lait

The Imp

The Imp (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

The little spirit is in his element tonight
The wine is particularly sharp at night
He is a teetotaller though
His pet-monkey is not
But the spirit loves milk
And the milk is particularly white tonight
The monkey’s eyes now red with wine
The spirit’s teeth now white with milk
And as whenever he’s drunk on milk
Inspiration barges in through his door!

He doesn’t quite write in ink or bytes
He doesn’t write on paper or screen
That’s ordinary level art
He delights in skilfully weaving romantic fantasies
Into the mind of that lonesome teenager
Those are the most gullible sorts
He enjoys craftily presenting visions
Giving the uninitiated ones “spiritual” experiences
Making them believe they just had epiphanies
He fancies softly forming dreams
Which the sleeping man is kept busy with
Yet some live their waking lives under these dreams’ shadows
He favours sparking the writer’s imagination
“Eureka! Genius!!!” The poet screams
“Pawn!” the spirit sneers
He doesn’t mind teasing the artist
Making his head burst with “ideas”
That only render him insomniac without real result

Who shall sue this mischievous being
For Writing Under the Influence (WUI)
And his only defence:
He was performing advanced level art!
In drunkenness he had forgotten
That the Creator-Spirit watched in silence
A Spirit much smarter with a stranger sense of humour
“Artistic ingenuity” the little spirit commends himself
“Predictable imp” smiles the Supreme Spirit

Now how’s that for art!

The Wild Child

- Tursiops truncatus A dolphin surfs the wake ...

I wake up when I wake up but lie still, as I contact the Unseen Creator.
I go through the day as if it’s the best day of my life
I dress in ways that generate debate yet not sexually suggestive or haggard
I don’t live by DEPENDING on things, like money, around me yet I use them
I live all too aware of the fact that I am mortal yet I am unusual
I live uninhibited by my own hormones and basic drives yet I am comfortable with having them
I don’t depend too much on others, whoever they may be, so long they are only humans
I am unattached to traditions I don’t understand yet I do not slander or pontificate
I do not fully understand the supernatural/unseen world yet I do not doubt its reality
I live like I have 100 more years yet completely fearless of death
I am softer than water, tougher than the rock, freer than the breeze, more passionate than fire
I am not God and I do not contribute to a universal mind
I am just a wild child who belongs to the Creator.

For Some Wor(d)(th)y Friends.

Night by the river

Night by the river (Photo credit: monkeyc.net)

It is a night like any other
Same thing happening every night
Like the creepy night spent lewin invaded Rod Bayne’s house
Like the Christmas night mad 1earthnow had a drinking binge
Like the scary night denting dnobrien was visited by the huntsman spider
Like the famous night chicken charron laid her golden (book publishing) egg
Like the wistful night shards of souls knelt with the fallen leaves dreaming of the summer sun
Like the sorrowful night unfettered wordshit sat alone with two empty chairs and tattered journal
Like the comic night drool of stupid cried over the only award he would never have soiled –Stupid Award

This night again, the Enchanted Writer approaches the throne of the Creator-God
To petition for the souls of men, that they may live full lives, not lacking the best things in life
That Lewin may not lose his soul –err…coat
That Maddy may lead a sober yet happy life
That Dennis may dwell in security
That Charron may lead a truly rich life
That Shards, unbroken, may shine your light
That Audra may enjoy the fullness of your love
That Stupid may not spit on your free gifts and goodness

P.S.: For some (NOT ALL) of my lovely friends made in 2012 – http://www.trentlewin.com , http://www.1earthnow.wordpress.com , http://www.dnobrienpoetry.wordpress.com , http://www.charronschatter.com , http://www.shardsofdubois.wordpress.com , http://www.unfetteredbs.com , http://www.ruleofstupid.wordpress.com
Panda, I am sorry I don’t know your real name. Please, note that calling you “Stupid” was not in any way an attempt at derogation or retaliation for my award you soiled.

Playing The Chess of Fate.

Prologue:
Introducing the Creator-God, all-wise holy-prankster
Of men’s fates, he is a chess grandmaster.
Even if some refuse to acknowledge his name,
They are still no smarter than pawns in his game.
/ Going back in time to an age before humans started playing chess, we see three pawns… /

1:
Having a lack-full beginning as a servant
Was a pot-bellied wealthy Arabian merchant;
To follow the Enchanting Star, he folded up his house to be sold,
And bundled the weight of it all in gold.
/ Oh! And he kept a Shi’ite assassin with him to guard him… /

2:
A noble savage raised in an African monastery
Saw the Enchanting Star as a greatest mystery.
He then set out with all his life’s essence
Symbolised by his jar of frankincense.
/ Like Prince Akeem Joffer (Eddie Murphy) leaving Zamunda at last for a life of discovery at America… /

3:
Hammered and shredded, this woman is a soul at loss.
The only thing she lives for is to caress a heavy wooden cross.
Seeing the Enchanting Star she set out on the spur,
Squeezing out of her cross a tincture of myrrh.
/ I, an Alchemist, charitably helped convert the cross (symbol of her sorrows) into the myrrh bitter perfume… /

Epilogue (Matthew 2:1-11) The three wise men present baby Jesus their gifts:

Arab: Jesus, take my gold in exchange for your richness,
And take my Shi’ite to protect you from Herod.
African: I have been “forming holier-than-thou” in self-righteousness,
But my frankincense smells like “fart” before you who is himself God.

Sufferer: My perfume has been donated to the house of Mary,
To be kept for the day you meet your worse-than-mine fate.
God: You lads willingly did my bidding, go make merry;
Whichever way it turns out, I always checkmate!

Author’s note: I planned the above stunt with the Creator-God. If you don’t believe I am a player, go to http://www.chess.com/members/view/krystophyr
Thank you.