<center><table border="0" cellpadding="10" cellspacing="10"><tr><td>we were rounded up<br>and rounded down<br>fragments paraded around<br>as guards made these rounds<br>not figures in-the-round<br>but part-n-parcel pushed around<br>life bends that we were rounding<br>had sent us spinning-round<br>pale halo so well rounded<br>yet few strokes of luck around<br>just us, just us, just round<br>round-n-round-n-round<br>in our green, grays, brown<br>black-n-blueness all around</td>

<td><img src="https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/9/9e/Vincent_Willem_van_Gogh_037.jpg/497px-Vincent_Willem_van_Gogh_037.jpg" width="325" height="450"></td></tr></table><br></center><p>

 #VanGoghChallenge #TheRoundOfPrisoners1890

<font face="Helvetica" size="3" color="silver">02.16.2018</font>

It exists in the bowels

of his imagination

twisted tree sucked

as through a straw

into luminous sky,

spitting out light

in sparks -

a damsel reaching

for redemption –

stars boil in cauldrons

in heaven’s vault, pleading

Take me, take me, take me

into the majesty of promises!

Celestial bodies

move in ravaged dance

reaching God

with outstretched hands

opening their mouths

to swallow the heavens

cobalt beasts whirling

in the burnished light

Take me, take me, take me

Once fluffy golden down

Crispened and darkned.

Holding on for dear life,

Yet soon they will fall;

And with each petal that falls,

A part of me falls with them.

Twisted, crushed leaves,

Bruised and darkened,

A bittersweet aroma arising

From the stems.

You notice these things--

But I notice something old,

Something beautiful

Taking place, a cycle, older

Than time. These flowers,

they will die, and give rise

To something new,

Something beautiful.

I can only hope that when

I die, something new and

Beautiful arises from

My ashes.

#poetry

#Van gogh

Hello, Vincent Van Gogh.

What is it that makes your eyes so dark

and your eyebrows knit up on the top of your face

and the light blue swirls about your head seem to dance?

is it that your jacket is much too big for you

or it is too hot in the room you are sitting in

or you got distracted and couldn't paint your head

the right shape?

were you looking away from the mirror

and painted all the wrong things?

hello.

where is your other ear?

why do you look at me with such disdain,

Mr. Van Gogh,

as if you know every part of me that i hide inside myself?

are you hiding inside of yourself?

where are you in this painting.

i cannot find you.

i see a man made of shapes and oil

and a loose blue jacket that seems to be strangling him,

Vincent,

why did you leave so soon?

did you mean to do it?

who knows how many more

beautiful pictures you could have painted

that swallowed the world?

who knows if you could have gotten better

and become a great man

and had children who painted just as beautifully as you?

was it meant to be?

did you mean to leave us all behind to stare at pictures of you;

left nothing but dried oil

unblinking eyes

and spirals, spirals, dizzy spirals?

There's something in the window,

Staring out at me,

And everytime I turn to look,

It stares right back at me.

There's something in the window,

The Doctor came to see,

From all of time and space,

The monster for to see.

There's something in the window,

It's scared, it's plain to see,

There's something in the window,

Staring out at me.

This poem is based on the Dr. Who episode, Vincent and The Doctor, and my imagination. Hope you enjoyed.

-Famewriter

A homely Dutch brood sat 'round a square table,

Thhim, Byet, Kaarl, Saydee... weird cousin Yaeble.

They supped on potatoes in some dim light,

Like all unattached Dutch singles at night.

In one dark corner, a second kettle sat, cold,

Yes, a second tea kettle they all could've sold!

Fools! There're nose jobs to be had!

Sell that kettle already! Stop looking bad!

But... maybe, the Potato Eaters were doing just fine.

Maybe. Or maybe they were plotting a crime.

Dutch people are wily. It's all those darn tubers.

Let's give it up for these sad, homely goobers!

Woman by the wash tub, in the garden

scrubbing tirelessly, without a thought

and unaware as to who is there with her

For I am here daily, drinking my coffee

And maybe it is she... who is with me

Anchoring me in her dialy tasks

of the mundane of life but as I have

none of my own, I share hers

And she shares with me

the sight and life of another

for I am here...wih cup in hand

alone at a table...watching

Watching the woman by the

washtub, tending to her daily tasks

as I tend to mine of watching her

wondering how she is...

"Woman by the Wash Tub in the Garden",1885 Van Gogh

Everyone sees a man

Alone in his chair

A single ear to hear

Not yet the starry night

Or gentle sunflowers

But I know the company

He keeps, below skin

Screaming from within

A sound that will not

Be painted away

“Juvenile joke” they called it

“A most macabre work”

Skull with Burning Cigarette

If all art is a reflection of one’s very life

Then the sentiments of my life

Should be no surprise

Consumed with abdominal ailments

And rotting teeth

But to give up my pipe and drink

Would be a travesty…

Head of a skeleton with burning cigarette

Vincent Van Gogh

January 1886 – February 1886

https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/8/87/Vincent_van_Gogh_-_Head_of_a_skeleton_with_a_burning_cigarette_-_Google_Art_Project.jpg

Pinacle of darkness

A shadow looming over the sleepy town

Stars so bright they blind

Mesmorize

Swirling and turning in the infinite dark

Cold, blue, black

Golden, new

Ancient light

Enter center stage, the dead and caged

Supernova

I thought I heard your cries

You were here before I was born

You'll be here long after we die

A stary night can be brigher than the day