Seven Bridges To Home
The first bridge to Earth from Heaven
And life that must be lived
To learn and grow and much to know
Like how to take and give.
The second bridge from child to adult
And maturing, growing tall
Seeing what is good and bad
But never learning all.
The third bridge seeking for the One
Who gives that life to you
And giving that life back to Him
The God of Good and True.
The fourth bridge takes you to the world
And all that it may offer
The game of fame and making a name
And money in the coffer.
The fifth bridge stretches for many
And seems at times so long
While life slows down and foot steps falter
And you begin to long for Home.
The sixth bridge is a tiresome trek
You pray for strength and breath
You feel again like a helpless child
Unprepared for life and death.
But oh, the seventh bridge awaits!
And on that distant shore
Stands the Son of Man where life began
And calls you Home once more.
The seventh bridge, the seventh day
The day of joy and rest
The ending of the long long journey
The seventh and the best.
And at the end of the seventh
When you think there's no more to see
An eighth bridge appears to a new world of no tears
And you'll walk into Eternity.
by Voo
first poem of new year
Jan 21, 2016
3:07 p.m.
Artist Rendition
Picasso paintings flash through my mind
Illustrative of the people I’ve known,
The people……… the men,
Okay, the lovers.……
Or the would-be-lovers that would have been
But could not be and should not be
But were there or almost there
Where I was and should not have been
At the time.
If that makes any sense.
Why Picasso, you might ask?
I’m glad you asked………..
It’s simple, really,
Let me explain.
(Are you sitting down?)
Ever since childhood,
Long ago and far away…….
Okay, yesterday,
Okay, look, it’s an on-going thing..……
I’ve always been convinced
That Picasso had a Humpty Dumpty fixation.
I mean, look,
(And I’m sure you’ll agree with me)
If we’re being honest…….
Don’t all of his painting subjects
Look like Humpty Dumptys
Who at one time,
Had to have been sitting on a wall somewhere?
I mean, really?
Love is like a badly cracked up egg
It can’t be unscrambled,
Can’t be un-scooped………….
You can’t remix the yellows and the whites
After you’ve separated them
Well, okay you can.………..
But then you have to bake a cake or something
(Or give yourself a facial.)
Damn! Why do I digress so much?!
The point I’m trying to make………
Is that all those Picasso people
Look like they’ve cracked up
On the sidewalk of love
And been repaired the best way he knew how
By the magic of art……..
(And with strange unfocused eyes.)
Is that so hard a concept to grasp?
You seem like such intelligent people………….
I was sure you would understand
I was sure you could follow my reasoning
I was sure…………
(Who the hell am I talking to?!)
I was always a Van Gogh lover myself,
A Monet fan, a Renoir romanticist………
Van Gogh’s subjects were plain and simple folk,
Like me,
So ugly they were beautiful,
Their faces full of agony and passion,
Always searching for the beauty in the dirt
And falling for the lovers who were broken.
Every man I’ve ever loved was like a Picasso painting,
Oh, maybe not before, but afterwards….
One minute strong and whole,
With the sidewalk beneath his feet………….
Head in the sky, smile on his face,
Reaching for me with those hopeful arms…………..
And the next thing I know
I’m trying to fix him up
With Super Glue and Duct Tape,
Scooping his scrambled brains
Back into a skull like an ancient sculpture,
Chipped and speckled like robin’s eggs
And hoping no one will notice what’s amiss.
I do the best I can…….
But there’s always something missing
When I’m done
Maybe the smile……………
Maybe the eye is over there,
The foot is dangling awkwardly………..
And I can never find the heart.
These memories hang
In the museum which is my mind
Every wall, adorned,
Every space, filled up with art
So oddly out of place………..
Picasso pieces in a Van Gogh world.
It’s time to find a new hobby, perhaps
I’m beginning to think I’m a lousy artiste………..
An abstract Impressionist in a dark studio,
More skilled at finger painting than portraits in oil,
My end results, caricatures, chimeras and comedies……..
And all of my lovers, like bad scrambled eggs.
©By Voo
March 6, 2011
12:50 a.m.
Four Stood Watching
Two men walked up
But four there stood
At the door of gilded gold and wood.
Two ladies danced
On marble floor
But on the walls, danced two ladies more.
Two trees swayed there
Back, fro and to
But on the ground swayed another two.
Two people kissed
Warm as the sun
But in their hearts, they stood as one.
Two lives entwined
Lived just the same
One went away and one remained.
Two people kissed
Lips sweet with charms
Then passed this life in each other's arms.
Two men walked up
But four there stood
Two ladies waltzing, but four dancers would.
Four ladies twirling
Four men, entranced
Then four stood watching as their shadows danced.
by Voo
Jan 23, 16
4 p.m.
