Steve Koons paints

L.A. Woman

 

Jack Scott writes

Costume Party

I wear a small self-sticking sign 
upon my costume, 
which is my normal self, 
in blue ink on white, 
“I AM” 
and on the white 
in white I write: 
“INVISIBLE”


The Invisible Man! -- Chad Lewis

Mallika Bhaumik writes

water colour

The haunting tune 
of monsoon, 
an old craving sprouts from beneath the mulch ,
the rain sodden memories
like dense ponderous clouds
of a far away land,
inch closer and closer,
then burst and collapse.
I breathe in the moisture of the air .

I look out
and see the intriguing wet darkness ,
my desolate lane
the blurred light of the street lamp
and the sharp arrows of rain creating a water colour ,
beautiful yet plaintive.

A face is overlapped by another
and yet another ...
and all these faces are mine ,
brush strokes of unspoken words ,
the smudged hues of their pain
painting the contours
of my desires,
and erasing them
again.
 
 Monsoon -- Ida Kendall

Guari Dixit writes

Invisible

Let me don a cloak of invisibility 

that which makes me invisible to others. 

Even if they see me 

they will see me 

as a part of the landscape 

or as a part of themselves. 

The wallflower 

that was always there 

blending into the background, 

the chameleon 

that is the leaf 

on the ground. 

Nothing out of ordinary - 

a raindrop 

on a rainy day 

dissipating in the mind, 

the fallen lash 

that grants a wish 

when blown in the wind. 

This cloak is a useful thing 

keeps me 

from getting plucked away 

being put into a vase till I wither, 

or becoming an exhibit 

in the museum of anomalies, 

an item in the miscellaneous bucket 

with low/no priority, 

getting relegated to the freak show 

because 

I am not able to go with the flow.

How do I become invisible to myself though? 

Where is the cloak 

that makes me part of you 

with blended colours 

and not the blue?

 

 L'homme invisible (The Invisible Man) -- Salvador Dali

Jon Huer writes

THE SEDUCTION OF JOB: Twenty Years Later   

A Dramatic Poem

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Job continues his self‑examination.

JOB TO SELF: 

O Lord my God, I am on trial again,  

But a trial of a different kind this time 

For I know I am guilty in my heart;  

And shame pours into my soul to curse me. 

In my earlier trial God punished me;  

Now I am punishing myself in this new judgment.   

In my pride I was privileged by the Almighty;  

As a haughty spirit people honored in error. 

They said, "There goes wise and pious Job:  

Blessed by God and steeped in wisdom, 

No other man in such high honor and esteem  

Is round about in the land of Uz this day." 

My wealth proved the innocence of my pride;  

Public honor protected the spirit of my haughtiness. 

But who was the real wise man who said,  

"Pride goeth before destruction, 

And an haughty spirit before a fall"?  

When neither my honor nor my wealth sustains me 

People will deride and scorn in true wisdom:  

"But when his heart was lifted up, 

And his mind hardened in pride,  

He was deposed from his kingly throne, 

And they took his glory from him."    

O how happy is everyone but my own miserable being! 

O how the lowly and poor now wear the crown of a king!  

O how their laughter pierces my heart like an arrow, 

And their mirth stabs my spirit like a sword!  

Do beasts and insects know the torment of my soul; 

Can the weeping of my heart be wholly unheard by them;  

Would they laugh at the cry of my torn spirit? 

Men and animals, lowly to lowliest,  

I bow to you in mourning and sorrow. 

Wonderful was everything before my fall:  

I was honored by all, esteemed by all; 

But grim and lonely is my life now.  

How I envy everyone who walks before my eyes‑‑

My servants, townspeople, and beasts and insects‑‑  

I wish I could be born as one of you, 

For you know not the great height  

That I climbed, and from which I fell.

    

No misery is greater than the pain of regrets,  

Being powerless to undo what has been done, 

For wisdom seldom arrives on time.  

I was charitable to all, but more to myself still: 

My wealth generously given away to the needy,  

But did I not keep the lion's share? 

Always among the first to be at the mourning,  

But did my heart truly grieve at the dead? 

Although I walked humbly before the Almighty,  

Did my spirit not believe I was above all men, 

Untouchable, superior, and beyond reproach?  

The Lord gave, and I misspent His gift.   

I cannot curse the day I was born for my guilt;  

Nor can I cry to heaven to take away my shame. 

The weight of my guilt and shame is crushing me,  

Yet who can lift it and relieve me 

When I alone put the weight upon myself?  

I was righteous without the true right, 

And was pious without the heart of true piety.  

The Commandments were followed, but not in humility, 

Public charity given to all, but without love.  

In all things I was first, God second, man third. 

The tears of my sorrow I must shed alone;  

The cries of my torment must I utter in silence.

O frailties of high honor and reputation,  

That can be destroyed and washed away 

As swiftly as the flight of time's moment  

And in the most ignoble of human follies. 

I built a dunghill of a monument to myself  

With great shows of piety and righteousness. 

Yet, in my moment of sheer stupidity and silliness,  

I blew away my dunghill monument to pieces, 

And angered the Lord my God and all his angels.    

O the desolation and loneliness of a fallen man 

Whose pride and haughtiness took him to a great height,  

From which he fell to the depth of greater misery 

Which he so rightfully deserved and received.  

But will God redeem him again?
 

 --William Blake