Sculptural, Graphical artworks & Poems

Archive for October, 2012

At Charon’s pier

I see my mother’s urn

 

The sunny lake

of morning is full

of empty, tilted events.

 

I stand at the open crypt,

the cool muddy darkness

struggles to stay in it’s cave.

 

Last memories like

kites strings,

cut my aching hand.

 

Nostalgic doves coo.

Chaos of feelings

causes insect pain.

 

Crows steal long threads,

from the eternal

healing cobwebs.

 

Priest mumbles,

laurel leaf on his eye,

his pocket  jingles.

 

My sigh pushes

the urn into the

murky underworld river of Styx.

 

Three apes in white shirt

jump on the stage,

with  the strength and skill of ants,

 

to slide the huge slab of silence

back to it’s  place,

with a soft slam to anchor the  end.

Gyula Friewald © 10/10/2011


Army of Dangerous Spiritual Dwarfs

 

Hundred and fifty million smile

creased and crashed

under the bulldozer of

every second man, yearly.

 

If someone loses a child,

forever hears the child’s sighs

in the rising wind, and

her face trembles in distant waters.

 

Desperate poverty opens the doors for

rich sexual scavengers,

disguised and masked as

patriots, parents, priests,

politicians, doctors, teachers,

 

kings, presidents, admirals,

train drivers, sailors, directors,

boxers, footballers, smugglers, actors,

terrorists, peacemakers, policemen,

 

All are proud citizens,

generals, lawyers, judges.

 

‘Brave’ get away with it adults,

failed their women, their universe.

Their crippled sneaky smile turns up

in all corners of our world.

 

Every second neighbors,

pedestrians, travelers tagged with it.

Slugs sliding on their body fluid,

butchering trust, abusing future.

 

If you are one of them, I’m watching you!

If not, keep your eye on them,

Not in silence but with loud full vigor,

identify their dirty corners.

 

To unveil secrets

of big daddies

stunted humanity,

burped up from psychic swamps.

 

Some simply barter

with their treasured photo collections

evidence of

their heart and mind slaughtering funs.

 

Don’t be fooled by their

sorry decorated

sentimental wailing or

lamentations about love.

Gyula Friewald © 23/10/2011