Journey to Ixtlan

The poem “Anonymity Seeks” was inspired by a Tumblr user who used the profile description, “I feels safe behind my anonymity.  As long as they don’t know who I am, I can be whoever I want to be.”


Anonymity Seeks

Anonymity seeks to obscure
what’s made plain in the words
only showing by intent
the many layers of content

safety is the first domain
with excursions to the edge
peeking out from shadow’s realm
with permission to state the mind

even while the masks prevent
perception granted to the perceived
the changing visions of the id
knowing only moment’s blend

the ignorance of the world
is fertile ground for inner quests
proving that obscurity
allows artistic types to truly be.

© 2019. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20191112.

The poem “Volumes to the Walls” is about the artist expressing more through their craft than they do by “normal” verbal means.


Volumes to the Walls

I'll speak the volumes to the walls
of endless pain and lost loves
the hunger that's always there
then hear the silence that is returned

the audience is multitude
at the same time, they are too few
by the measure of a response
registered against my heart

the void receives what it won’t give
denying passage to and fro
solitude is the result
even while the words may flow

perhaps it’s for the best
this ignorance of all the rest
that flat denial of what’s said
when the balm matters most

for society that contrives
to deny artistic strife
I’ll speak the volumes once again
knowing silence will be my end.

© 2019. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20190313.

The poem “Beneath the Paint” is about the artist, in this case a painter, seeking solace in their art.


Beneath the Paint

The painter awakes another day
with a wisdom held to heart
this mantra they’ll pass to you
before resisting with their tools

beware the whispers that intrude
seeking purchase in your thoughts
malignant tendrils that confuse
the hold on life we pursue

stepping light to not awake
the monsters waiting for their turn
escape is possible if I resist
hope the ground will remain firm

most don’t see the waiting cracks
chasms hid beneath veneers
kept intact by wash washed strokes
another layer against the doom

an artist using their only tool
however feeble the attempt may be
hands to ears in slack defense
the brush as sword once again

fighting shadows beneath the paint
wishing more was possible
fiends that murmur nonetheless
waiting for another day.

© 2018. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20180630.

I’ve been posted to various internet social media platforms since about 2007. Prior to that I ran a BBS in the pre-internet world. I’ve been writing and posting a poem a day since September of 2014 across multiple poetry oriented sites (six at this point!). Uncounted other content sharings have been put forward for public review. All of this has amounted to material tossed out to the judgment and consumption of the world. These outcomes vary tremendously. This begs the question: why? The poem “To Live Beyond” hints at the answer.


To Live Beyond

The pebble falls into the pool
from how far up I'll not guess
the height will tell cause impact
not known before stone is tossed
the land may drown in the wave
submerged by the resulting crest
or ripples will disturb the peace
hidden by a calm breeze.

A balloon flies to the waiting sky
another message sent to soar
asking those far below
to gaze above at the sight
what may happen will depend
on who stands looking up
it could be a swarming throng
or silence of deserted field.

Against these fickle turns of fate
the author seeks a surer thing
and artist bends media to mind
before presenting to the world
artifacts made by hand
God's expression none can deny
if there were a few kind souls
to witness dawn of Genesis.

These pleading cries are self-exclaimed
wanting ears to hear the noise
imploring eyes to turn their way
with guarantees worth no more than dust
blood and tears poured to create
asking others to behold
toil embraced to create
hoping some will witness this.

Recognition is the food
for the soul seeking more
than isolation in its art
emotion's void without love
when the pebble seeks the pool
and a balloon flies above
asking all to honor these
the artist's bid to live beyond.

© 2017. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20170913.

“Scribe’s Accomplishment came together as a response to the prompt “What is your personal vision of a successful life” and a friend blogging “I think a lot of art is trying to make someone love you’. I suspect much of my poetry is seen by few, but I take solace that a small amount is seen by a few, and those few see something in me with the effort.


Scribe's Accomplishment

Success rang in with the dawn
another chance to make the art
reveal myself in quest for love
so I may feel the same within
my waking dream began with words
spun from thoughts I’d like to share
the good and bad, the in-between
the outcome spans my world.

From activism to joy's refrain
offered for the reader’s view
spun together in facsimile
of the success I'd like to see
the achievement would manifest
if a set of eyes considers there
the offerings from a soul desiring
connection beyond their mortal coil.

I spoke of love in the first refrain
to this subject I'll return again
through this art I catch a glimpse
the mirrors reflected in readers' gaze
at the alter of my poems
response will vary by reference there
still I'll take in the passion sent
back to the writer, scribe's accomplishment.

© 2017. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20170509.

A friend said that everything I do is art. This is a relative truth when my public face is observed. However, this made me realize how much art I'm not creating, and how much art I may not create in the unknown future. Perhaps some artists are completely satisfied with what they do. The poem "Edge of Tragedy" is written with the voice of an artist who isn't satisfied with what they’re creating.


Edge of Tragedy

It's art on the edge of tragedy
fueled by life's inconsistencies
waiting for the end of times
by my hand some craft becomes
with the rest to be undone
the treasures gained past to ash.

Bright colors berate of consequence
the thread's consumed by dust's mantle
not be be woven to tapestries
instead the brilliance is obscured
unraveling without creation’s urge
to collect where none shall see.

What should have been is lost
whispers suspended ahead the speech
memories forgotten before they're had
lost to echoes turned inside
resounding vulgar inside a mind
wishing for silence ringing loud.

The madness asks for nothing else
it gives on whim of the good days
while keeping rest with selfishness
there the art exists in thought
twisted round the screw of mind
longing for the end of times.

© 2017. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20170418.

A person I follow on Tumblr posted a farcical health bulletin that portrayed Donald Trump as a disease. It reminded me that artists, no matter their stripe, have the very special ability to speak out against the rigid fears of life. I've done a bit of this, and I appreciate those artists who are brave enough to make statements against the relative evils of the world.


Fall This Day
Poem for Day 255 – 20150913

Watch them poke at the giant,
with only art held in their hands.
Armed with the muses' gifts,
the mighty will fall this day.
Foolish mortals of lax morals,
deviants seeking to speak their mind,
what hope do you have my friends
when you turn the world on it's head?

The battle is guile against laughs,
dogma of man versus humor.
The former provides the ammo,
while the latter tosses it back.
Your enemies fall on their own petards,
explosions felt across the web,
slipped on their own banana,
hit by the pie they made themselves.

The giant is taken down a notch,
made shorter by Satan's jest.
God's true name is spoken
by the profane to save us all.
Don't feel sorry for The Man,
struck by your pens and paints.
They provided the means for
the mighty to fall this day.

© 2015, Sean Green. All Rights Reserved.

The poem "Lives Combined" explores the revelation of the artist's output, what it says about them, and how it speaks to a shared experience.


Lives Combined
Poem for Day 236 – 20150824

I

So many things to mark with prose,
cast of thousands have passed
intersecting my life contrary.
Unknowing companions of my walk,
do they know the masques that contrive
to hide my true self from their sight?

Times, places, friends, enemies,
testimony to the continued journey
of these fifty and more years.
Joys, sorrows, wins, defeats,
more have passed than I can count,
molding me all these many years.

Ink the pen and smooth the page,
it is time to put to prose
the truth of the one you think you know.
Ink of blood, sweat, and too many tears,
parchment from the joy and toil of many days,
these are the tools I will take to hand.

II

How do I share myself in words
sufficient to illustrate me
to a curious world at large?
I'll be the honest man for the audience,
more than I can be for myself,
share the truths of life almost lived.

Take down the masques and turn them round,
name each with their own history
labels of my flawed humanity.
So many ways life was lived,
imperfectly met in the moment,
spiraling to this very day.

Retrieve the skeletons from the closet,
each one a sin of the past or present,
with sin being the easiest way.
Perhaps I could have been better,
should have said or did the other,
but life seemed to get in the way.

III

I've said my piece in so many words,
scattered behind me through the days,
a madman's ravings they will say.
This may be but there is more.
the words portray more than a single soul
in this shared illusion, life's biggest joke.

Turn the mirror and see yourself
reflected back by my words silvered
on the glass of my spilled ink.
Listen to my voice through stuttered words,
you'll hear your own if you try,
echoes of lives shared in humanity.

So many things to mark with prose,
I'll speak them now for you and I,
so we may know of life shared.
I welcome you found companion,
my masques are yours and yours are mine,
voiced in words of lives combined.

© 2015, Sean Green. All Rights Reserved.

My poetic theme of the day is “drive”. This worked out well because I had been thinking about WHY I do art stuff. My lovely wife says I'm terribly brave. I say that I'm old enough to get away with speaking my mind. Any which way, I am driven.


Driven
Poem for Day 173 – 20150622

Once I wanted what I could hold,
possessions of glittery function,
to spend my time, to spin the wheels,
once I was happy with these things.

Now I want to spin gossamer threads,
creative expressions of my passions,
philosophical nudgings from the left,
and naughtiness of dance and delight.

Good, bad, and ugly are the source
of words aligned with my creations.
Pointed words to shock and to awe,
with photographs to show the way.

Boredom begone from this lyricist,
I'll spin another song to pass the time.
Stanzas reflecting a life both held
and one that I'd really like to have.

Audience is of their own choosing,
reviewers of both pain and strife,
my struggle with the world comes free
to those who take their time to read.

Others are drawn to the ripe romance,
dance expressed in the objective,
innuendo hiding in the subjective,
with a wink and nudge say no more.

You may ask why I'm driven so,
to produce poems and songs for you.
I'll tell the truth be told,
I do it for both you and me.

There are thing's I like to share,
reveal a part of myself to you.
There are things I must share,
driven to hold onto sanity.

© 2015, Sean Green. All Rights Reserved.

I am blessed to know artists of all types: painters, potters, dancers, DJs, cosplayers, poets, writers, performers, singers, photographers, bloggers, and dreamers. The last, the dreamers, I hold in most sincere regard because of the potential not yet realized. The poem “The Muse’s Call” is about the relation between the artist and that larger force driving us to create.


The Muse's Call
Poem for Day 155 – 20150604

I'd like to dance like Fred Astaire
and write lyrics like the Yes.
I'd like to strut my stuff with you
and know that my work's been viewed.
To this end I am not unique,
merely a struggling artist incomplete.
I have my desires to excel,
to leave something of myself behind.

These are this artist's fantasies,
extensions of who I've come to be.
I've become more than myself
with you a witness of my renaissance.
We are all life's participants
in this game till the very end.
The geist of artistry is our guide,
lady of creation cradling the child.

I will not ignore her calling,
the request to speak for the muse.
She holds my hand as I walk,
putting forth my artist's spark.
My words now come to an end,
with Fred Astaire and the Yes in tow.
I'll take my leave from your time,
and know that I have served her well.

© 2015. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved