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Lone doting
Do not daggers let your words be.
Let all souls entreat and be treated with mercy.
To whom is your compassion hurled?
Does it toss and sigh without reply?
Or will the moon hang coldly above your world
Mocking thee as thy virgin affections lie
At the feet of your beloved who denies all betrothal.
And it consumes you with irate despair
To be certain you could bestow their joy eternal.
If only they thought thine oppressive doting ever fair.
This age is a bitter mistress
Who will snare at the roses we toss.
Upon her bosom it doth wither
Where it is redolent of her heartache, her loss.
Every weeping angel has a sculptor,
‘Tis the parentage of all pain.
When love like the plague catches
They surely are the first to be slain.
By Rohini James
Copyright October 2013
All rights reserved
As originally published on Right Brain Idealism
Paint Splatter
by Patrick Latter
He shoved the heavy door open, causing some of the old paint peels to break off the piece of wood and lock. He dropped his painted covered knapsack onto the grimy floor and passed his hands through his disheveled curly hair. He unenthusiastically went through his mail as he shifted to the kitchen in search of something for his growling stomach although he knew that his prospects were low. His clothes were methodically stained with all shades and types of paint as if he was the canvas instead of the artist. His small fridge had barely been able to keep an old sandwich from expiring and after that was removed there was nothing but the white interior of the fridge left to mock him (something that he would have to remedy later). Not even that would be allowed to remain untainted by his painter’s hand.
The stray cat sat on the uneven table and watched him search the cupboards for the non-existent food. The ball of fur was covered naturally in orange, black and white patches of fur; its flurry of colors was the only reason that the feline menace was the only reason it was allowed to stay. Finally giving up, he pulled open a large pantry door with his canvas skin hands, before him were row among rows of high quality paint. The quality of the paint was way above the pay that one would assume he had judging by the state of his home.
The cat watched with its two differently colored eyes, judging him quietly as the artist lugged the paint cans to a black room. He could feel the hairs begin to stand up on the back of his neck, and the familiar tingle race across his skin. He quickly uncapped the paint cans and placed them in a semi-circle. The artiste turned his back towards the neon paints and faced the room he had covered in black poster paper.
Closing his eyes, he concentrated on the smell of fresh paint, and miraculously but not strangely, the dried paint lifted off his skin and hair and fell to the ground. Now there was a faint humming, a vibration in the air, and the waves originated from the center of the paint can and rippled out. The cat let out a short yowl and arched its back briefly before cowering behind an abandon paint can. The artist exhaled slowly and then tension in the air disappeared for a short moment.
Suddenly, almost as quickly as it had disappeared it came blasting back and large globs of paint shot up from the cans and hovered in the air. The artiste flicked his hand and it came rocketing forward, attacking both the black canvas and himself almost indiscriminately.
Then, the bombardment stopped and the remaining paint fell to the floor, and briefly, and beautifully, bounced up, mixing with each other before dying down and running amuck on the uncanvassed floor.
[For the original pictures and others like it check out Patrick Latter’s blog at http://www.hikingphoto.com and click here for more splash photography]
What I Saw Today
The winds are a special kind of artist. With just one breath of the heavens the water in front of my turned from a thin, nearly invisible sheet of glass, to a tempered, dented, frosted clear sheet that awed me so much I found myself paralyzed, unable to allow my existence to disturb this moment of beauty. I now know where the churches got the idea for their windows from. Try as I might to recreate it, and try as the winds might to show it again, true genius cannot be mimicked, so I clung to the memory as I diffused my excess energy into this vat of diluted chlorine.
What I Saw Today
It seemed to me that the world had suddenly come alive, and despite the ache in my softened muscles and the hunger gnawing at my belly. A butterfly rode the wind uneasily and bobbed like a buoy on a rough sea in the wake of a typhoon, and it’s movements were alive in my head once again. I heard, felt, and saw so many words, sentences, and stories in that instant from that poor butterfly’s unstable bout that I knew the stifling silence had been banished from my mind.
What I Saw Today
Glancing up at the sky nature took my world and flipped it upside down in an instant, in the blink of an eye, a change so brief it felt like a dream. This dragonfly that flitted above my head but for a moment made me feel so incredibly small, and made itself seem so big and wide and majestic I hardly remembered who I was, and who it was, and the difference between us.
Quote of the Week
A painting done by Walter Anderson
Bad things do happen; how I respond to them defines my character and the quality of my life. I can choose to sit in perpetual sadness, immobilized by the gravity of my loss, or I can choose to rise from the pain and treasure the most precious gift I have – life itself.
-Walter Anderson
What I Saw Today
Out of the window all that seemed to speak to me were the dead trees with their gaunt twisted fingers reaching for the skies. The world seemed to be moving too fast for me to take it in, but too slowly to excite the blood in my veins. However, the marks of death scattered through out the scenery that jogged by seemed to seep through the persona presented to the world and whisper to my core. The girl in there was happy to meet them, she was happy they were dead, dead like this land was to her, dead like the person on the outside seemed to her each time thoughts aroused her from sleep. My gaze was dragged forward, half reluctantly, and the streetlights seemed to form a tall wall on either side of the street, making me feel small, and mouse like. However, the instant passed and the whispers of the dead echoed between houses until, the song was over, the thought broken, and she who had woken went back into her deep slumber
More Than Young Ink 