Spontaneous poem is like
Brushstroke journey
One moment following into the next
black ink on white paper
shape out of the formless
punctuation for the sheer hell of it
…
Even a pause is continuation of the flowering
…
Even silence speaks….
…
And then off we go again
Sometimes soaring into rarified alpine airs
leaping peak to peak like proverbial Tibetan snow lion
sometimes plunging into fetid valley
padding on pulpous paws through rotting underbrush
sniffing for putrid carcasses of much-loved meals
senses alert, stripes incandescent
with immanent appetite
and hot fresh blood smell of the
next hot fresh kill.
…
And then we swoop away again and from smooth lines we
occasionally
SLASH DOWN VIOLENTLY
or even back track
or scribble violently from side to side
from side to side again and again
going over the same side to side slashing
with slight variation in angle maybe
or maybe not and then
we can move to circling round and round
perhaps expanding
then contracting
smooth neat lines overplaying their precious simplicity
until repetition births complexity
smoothness becomes rough
clarity gets messy
…
and it’s like we are in gritty back alleys
in a large city
a couple of homeless sleeping near a large restaurant dumpster
and undying shiny wrapper garbage
the only signs of life
in such dark, street-lit dark alley undergrounds
(you never know where you might end up!)
…
Then on we go with a brave long stroke into
new vistas of fresh white paper
stroking soft
stroking smooth
rejoicing in bright clean freedom once again
like well-trimmed sloop cresting the waves
and beating forward into resplendent challenge
of salt spray wonder
and adventures
as yet unimagined
yet now glistening on the upthrust, rainbow sporting
prow.
baronbrasdor.art 