[for a few months I would do a poArt (a painting and poem) and then weave a story together. Well this ideal of a poetic like story accompanying the painting was great, but required much too much time. Poems and paintings for poArt come out rather pure, the story required revision and a lot more work. Here's one of the the poArt parables. Hope you enjoy.]

A poArt parable: “Deludes”

 

“Shattered or left with crumbled feelings, each citizen begged to be made into a castle one last time. Will the memory of a strong Soviet Union ward off evil? Yes, they were once great and safe, able to eat, drink and be merry -- some of the time.”  

The once proud window within the writer's mind was lost in the space of days, years, and decades that flowed through the polluted rivers of centuries. The writer screams again. “Give me the sea of our civilization with scuba gear to survive in the mire. What species of fists will appear? What type of fangs will suck oxygen from little fish left half withered, unable to recognize beautiful colors in the reefs. Oh, will those be real coral or just plastic substitutes to burn with blacker smoke when discovered as a frontal sheen? Please, take this rotten knuckle from my guts and allow poetry to weep with the tides of hope. Why must revolution always be on the brink, blinding the masses from the sharks who gulp and gobble and get what they need -- just like a disease that attacks when pretending to be a vaccine? Now what's happening? I must seem like a liar who reeks of conspiracy theories breeding in smoke stacks. Why? Should I die along with my words which will not reach single ears? Even if I disguise messages with novel themes, will the calamity pass right out the other ear as history wields its daggers deeper in the proletariat's heart?”

_________________________________

When the "campfire" crackles and wheezes, giggles erupt from kids on a camping trip to the middle of a barren field. Hot air escapes like passing gas from the body, which is nothing to take seriously. Is sap actually storing wisdom from lessons never really absorbed from their parents and parents' parents? Are the lessons left undigested? Is this an opportunity for the enflamed fuel to leave a final parable before drifting up to the sky -- reaching towards starlight to mingle with the Greek myths of greed, deceit and continual subversion?

Oh how each branch tries to extend the trunk's potent rings of repetition. These rings of wisdom desperately need the boys and girls to listen. Could they? Would they? No, for they already seem obsessed with what advertising and transplanted culture brings. Even at age eight, nine, ten and eleven, they dress immorally, pretending to be animal magnets in perennial heat. It's like their songs are becoming the same everywhere around the world. ‘Who uses the better shoes, the shorter skirt, the perfect words, the prime spots to meet after dark, the condom. . . .' How can they listen when movies, billboards and other forms of propaganda mold brain waves? Even against these odds, grains within the wood choose to slowly weep. “When we thought that we could grow in directions of our own choice, we were stopped. Instead of sacrificing for what we love so songbirds could share sounds with the waving of our leaves, our roots were cut and forced to feed from gullies of greed. Yes those people in power would trick and deceive us into believing that our friends worked for the good of the entire forest. Sure, how I wanted and needed to believe in the myth of the hammer and sickle, yet it trimmed our hands and feet to meet another superior's expectations. Yes it hurt, costing us our freedom to think of anything other than the rules. Rules forced us into straightjackets of communism. Communists told us where we should be and how to get there. We couldn't stretch towards the sun with freedom to dream of how our growth adds sustenance to a greater ecology. Ceilings placed our limits and even then we each have to prove that every inch aligns with their aspiration, some type of materialistic idealism from man named Marx. Never does any real growth occur! Where the spirit of the sun?

“Will the others who were permitted to freely grow (especially those Americans), accept our temporary stagnation and allow us to bloom in the struggle against injustice? Believe me, our experiences can bring real wealth. Let the darkest secrets of pride, or the agony of enslaved perceptions be brought to light. Our future generation will feast on attained wisdom! ‘Future,' represented in you youth, hear my final plea! We can add so much to this world. Listen as teachings abound, reaching from across the seas to bring clarity to our experiences. Discover the diamonds of time. Ride the wave of the future and watch while shores are being torn apart to reveal hidden truths beneath delusions.”

back to the poArt page