Lost and found

If no one writes it is okay by me
I can write enough to make up for the rest
If some don't read it is okay by me
There is always someone else who will and tell me he or she
likes it all the same, and that is all one needs
to keep going on in the way I used to do or be 
when you were there. I just pretend it is still the past
close my eyes. It's yesterday and your poems and comments
Come in waves and memories
Like perfumes of Araby 
To soothe the fears in the child; the little, lost, and lonely me.

Just a blurb

Seventeen days - 21 poems.

Muse, I finally feel your presence with me
I am back in the flow, I am raring to go
I miss you as much as you miss me
Together we made such a team
Five each day if you were there
Now I have mellowed and come down to two
But today as the pressures increase
I may write five, and this is now two!

Glopowrimo 17 - Shifting points of view/ for Leonardo di Caprio and Kate Winslet

In the movie she was nude
In reality it was only to the waist

In the movie he drew her
In reality he was just getting to know her

In the movie they made passionate love
In reality it was rather hot in the studio

In the movie and out of it
He could not resist telling her her breasts were hot

In the movie they stood on the prow of the ship
In reality she was scared of how

In the movie they fell in love
In reality they told each other of their loves

In the movie the water filled the ship
In reality she wept at the tragedy of the Titanic

In the movie he died and she was left
In reality they were happy it was a huge hit

You can replay but not change
the ending, but in reality they did.

Glopowrimo Dramatic Monologue 2

Fateful women - Dramatic monologue of Vincent talking to Dr Gachet for the last time in his absence

So where was I, Dr Gachet?
May.
Yes, then I was not a painter.
But I was. Already. Effects appeared to me in colours
So when she rejected me I felt everything swallowed up in browns.
The Dutch school is very dull and full of dark and turgid colours and that must have influenced me unconsciously.
The miners at Rouen were all shades of black, green, and gold but strangely vivid like the night sky seen when one is having a fit of epilepsy
The women looked out of shape or carrying.
Perhaps there was something wrong with meto see them as they are, suffering, and try to draw them to evoke sympathy for them.
Later, there was that model Christine but she tortured me.
So I painted her in venomous blues and yellows that were not sun or sunflower or cornflower sky blue.
I painted my impressions, my thoughts, my feelings, I never looked at the brush or the colour something exact
I applied knife to canvas or squeezed the paint directly on
It lay thick on the world like a bad case of rash
like semen or food, left-overs at that
delicious and sometimes gone bad
And Rachel, she was orange and red
"Fou-rou" she called me but I made her bronzed
While I bled, tired of prostitutes and every one else
Strange sounds buzzed in my ears corresponding to colours
My head reeled as in the days of sun-stroke and heat haze and of my fights with Gauguin
I missed my brother, Theo
I missed my painter friends
I missed my miners
I missed May most pitiably
I missed my childhood and my family
I missed Paris but loved Arles more
I missed even the commune and the gospel
Now I have come to the end of days
This is my shot gun
I am in a daze
Talking to you
And will put things in place
The sun is in a mighty blaze
But even you are not here
Let me pull the trigger