T-kun Unusual Wordsmith III

The storms unsettled the sea and land. Blinding the town; in forever darkness. The sky bleated with faded signs, of light, nothing, close to the casting, of a falling full moon behind the lines of life.

Mountains from afar, gaze upon as the hellfire gate was to open. With, nothing but a demon stares down on the town.

Knowing, the shipping of the months to come would never make through the storm.

Something had to be done and fast. One lone man leaves the safety of the homes, venturing out with heavy gales and clashes of waves racking his body to numbness. Ripping the door, slipping so on the steps upward, the light had to be on.

It had to be, darkness could not win this year. Glass from the sounding windows broken from the winds, rotator rushed from the rain fall, light work damage over the short time of the weather.

But the man, without much thought, removed his shirt, finding anything else to in need. Finding a quick haste matches, clothes, and a few bottles of bourbon, working with little, on top of the rotator, splashing the clothes and his shirt with bourbon.

Light a matches, tossing onto the stack, running quickly down the stairs, holding slipping would fasten his foot work down. With a smothers of smoke followed, an amber glow warming his back.

The crackling the of the entrance came down, barely grazing his back, as the man kept running until finding a dry place to rest, finally looking back.

The lone lighthouse, cast a blaze. A beacon was given for the fisherman. And though it was faint, different from the man’s beating heart, a bell tolls could be heard. The town was saved, but at a price, that was better than the latter of choices if the deed wasn’t done.

How the Lighthouse Fire of 1790 saved such a small town. But, it was, a town well worth it.

A Lighthouse on fire at night by Joseph Wright of Derby

Painted of around the year 1790

Where it was painted; unknown

Children lay restless in the night. Seeing, through their window; covered in thick lairs of ice and snow of a holiday winter. A soft glow reaches from under the door near the little brother’s bed, for he hope the dark would leave him be to see what the upcoming day would give.

His sister, who was not far away, was seen resting by him, both clans in cloth nightgowns. Their button noses, unable to stop, the faint scent of mint, pine, wax, polish wood, and burnt wood from the fireplace that was beyond their door.

Quiet chines of bells ring, as to what a tall and rounded figure could only do. A deep chuckle echoed roughly through the walls.

Parents whispering snoozes left from another room. It only meant that it had to be him. Both children fearing to moved quickly and loudly that the jolly man would be gone, before they had a chance to catch a glimpse of him.

Hushing words to one another slowly left their shared bed. Inching each step; to the oak door, with care. Having the silk sheets, graze over their uncovered skin, tickling them to make a sound.

Having youthful feet land with a bare jump down, having only the carpet floor creak with the new weight. The children, frozen in place, by the sudden sound . . . and waited in the darkness of, their room. For, an ear dropping, sound too reach, them.

When nothing was given, they chanced closer and closer to the door. Hearing the clatter of small tike hand size objects landing on one another has they were being placing with care. Humbly with care, this, that only loves one, could only do.

That deep voice gave another sound of booming lark, bells played, and soon silence. With hush gasps, the children rushed to the door.

Opening it, upon finding what was left for them on a Christmas morning. And other year that they missed the man in red once again, but they knew, there was always next year.

With that, the children cheered with glee, awaken the parents with little try, and begun their day.

Happily in to, the cold winters holiday. With the family together, around the colorful and lit tree, fireplace cracking with warmth, and a faint air of peace was given to the family.

As, if the worries before, the something unknowing, never happen.

And maybe it’s true.

Christmas Morning by Henry Mosler

Made in the year 1916

Location of when painted; unknown

The sun sets to amber twilight dusk, faint winds rustle the tumble weed and grass.

Clear sky is given with feeble tales that the stars and planets will shine down on the sandy lands of the old west. Heavy trails of a gallivanting horse soar through unmarked paths.

The fine hairs are cast in to a yellow flinch feather.

The rails bounce with every moment the mighty beast goes. His rider, showing joy for both, leads the stallion further on through the lands. Having scents of the leather seat, freshly oiled gun, and powered up jerky to numb the mind in the endless run.

Faint clank raddle from the spike wheel off the edge of the young’s man boots, as the young steed leaps forward. With the air so dry, ground not touched by railroad man, open skies free from tall buildings, and nature at every pass and turn.

It brings out the inner shifty in us all.

Many tales have given what one could do, if having the chance of being able to release this unknowing being. And go where no other man would ever dare to tread.

As the dust clouds thicken with moving step, covers for that man could never followed. For, he wants to see the old west, on his own.

Let his senses alone being able to take everything in and be what no big-time city man could ever understand. And that one feeling that all senses can understand, is very simple.

So simple, that it will be only said once and only once. So listen, and use your senses to understand what this inner cowboy did once oh-so long ago.

Freedom and lived it.

Against The Sunset by Frederic Remington

Made in the year 1906

Location of when painted; unknown

The lone path; trodden roughly, into a flesh-biting road. Lead nowhere in the land of limbo. Unstable mountains towers over others, scaring the skies with every gray cloud in its passing, as the trees and grass lay bare and weathered down by ghastly winds and acid rains, to have them thin down into nothing but simple twines.

Higher dark clouds filled the sky, covering the eyes of the sun to light the land, and guide the unfortunate mislead.  Where out in the darkest parts, where even heaven won’t dare look upon.

It glows that of a sinner’s fire, fueled by the damned, the forgotten, and the lower means life. Their bodies warm the air greatly and mask it in a thick fog of decay. Their screams muffled over the storms to hide what is not true to the anew naked being of beginning.

For, they must be fooled to watch that beaten path with no care and no chance of leaving. But there is one being, a knight if you will, to take, and a simple moment to know this lone figure.

For, he is not one to friend nor come to understandings to be one’s foe. That in nothing short for what he is an unknown man to watch you. Push you where you must be. He has no name, nor will anyone ever see his face.

For that if they did, they would never leave the land of limbo. Never know that of heaven or hell. Or that limbo is life once more, but forever played over and over, to never die, and relive past mistakes over and over.

Until, to the brink with madness.

Laugh now and think this as childish lark. You’ll be alone to see it that way. Understand that this knight carries no weapon, or voice to pointlessly chat with you. Only his silence is casted in airy appearance around him, and sadly you as well.

Looking down, on you with empty eyes, which held so much, which, he would seem as mocking you without knowing. For in limbo, you get what you never dreamed of.

Of all senses taking away from what you human, and left you as nothing but a ghost.

But that alright, it was your choice to come here anyway, what any other meaning did you have to come only this far?

The knight sure doesn’t see it, and maybe heaven and hell will see it too.

Christian on the Borders of the ‘Valley of the Shadow of Death,’ Pilgrim’s Progress by Frederic Edwin Church

Made in the year 1847

Location of when painted; unknown

The fruitless blizzard has fallen thicker by this year. Its, pillow-faintness covering, all and everything, in, it’s vastly and nonsensical wake. It fading winds the last thing all feel for the coming nights of winter.

Trees bear from the harshness of autumns falling. The lake and small streams, frozen, mirroring in a backwards parallel reflection. Though, if looking carefully, the rivers move on, without much care of clear weight bearing down on it.

A stone bridge, made by man long ago, weathers down to match nothing but the towers fall back. For that they stand so tall, just within inches of gracing the sky, to what others would say is a patch on the shoulder of greetings.

Lenient chirps of small dusky feathered swallows and buttery bared finches echo clearly through the day, knowing well their neighbors the steely spiked pigeons will guide them to where a near meal can be found.

A dim glow of the sun is setting, giving such warmth, that this white season could never do. The towers inner lights and the lamps of the park, mix with the sun, in what could be only seen as understanding of one another. Just as the waving hills, trees, waters, plants, have understood that what the seasons must do.

For if the world stayed one thing for so long, how would the start of something new happen, if one does not wish for it. Change is something that comes in many forms. Intentional or something far, from, that it is not known by man. It’ll happen, for that we must take it, head on.

Just as autumns goes, winter comes, and soon later spring, with its warmer sibling summer. A cycle that will forgo and we can’t stop.

All we must do is enjoy it, while we can.

Central Park by Colin Campbell Cooper

Made in the year 1931

Location when painted; Central Park, New York

The fruitless blizzard has fallen thicker by this year. Its, pillow-faintness covering, all and everything, in, it’s vastly and nonsensical wake. It fading winds the last thing all feel for the coming nights of winter.

Trees bear from the harshness of autumns falling. The lake and small streams, frozen, mirroring in a backwards parallel reflection. Though, if looking carefully, the rivers move on, without much care of clear weight bearing down on it.

A stone bridge, made by man long ago, weathers down to match nothing but the towers fall back. For that they stand so tall, just within inches of gracing the sky, to what others would say is a patch on the shoulder of greetings.

Lenient chirps of small dusky feathered swallows and buttery bared finches echo clearly through the day, knowing well their neighbors the steely spiked pigeons will guide

them to where a near meal can be found.

A dim glow of the sun is setting, giving such warmth, that this white season could never do. The towers inner lights and the lamps of the park, mix with the sun, in what could be only seen as understanding of one another. Just as the waving hills, trees, waters, plants, have understood that what the seasons must do.

For if the world stayed one thing for so long, how would the start of something new happen, if one does not wish for it. Change is something that comes in many forms. Intentional or something far, from, that it is not known by man. It’ll happen, for that we must take it, head on.

Just as autumns goes, winter comes, and soon later spring, with its warmer sibling summer. A cycle that will forgo and we can’t stop.

All we must do is enjoy it, while we can.

Central Park by Colin Campbell Cooper

Made in the year 1931

Location when painted; Central Park, New York

I hold on to the little things,
That is everything around me.
Blindsided to what should seem so good to see for what I am.
Yet, I can’t seem to.

Not to say I want to become anything worthwhile,
Nor perfect by any means.
For,
That lives in only in dreams.
Dreams,
I don’t want to false everything that I know.

If there is a place for that,
Where I can feel at least a bit at home,
Please someone one,
Anyone,
Take me to that wonderland.

Yet,
I still find myself,
Sitting by the window,
Watching,
The four seasons tick by.
Spring is now,
And bountiful,
A small of butterflies are out,
One lone butterfly nears my window.

About to open the window,
It flies off,
Into the woods,
To where I dared followed it,
Out of curiosity,
Even knowing fully well what happens to cat in the end.

With caution for others not to follow,
I walk alone,
Solo,
But strong minded,
For,
I couldn’t be gone for longer than an hour to the most.

Each step taken through the woods,
Leaves an soft echo,
In their,
Humble wake,
That the forest’s floor offers.

So soon,
Night had fallen,
Sadly finding I was lost,
Nowhere near home,
Or seeing that path once followed now gone.
Only the guide of the angels on the moon to light my way,
For that,
I keep walking on.

With luck,
I’ll find a way to get out.
If I get lucky enough that is.

Just if I was Alice,
That the illusions of my mind,
Would take over,
And let me see what I want to see,
Naturally,
Tricking me,
To make me smile that everything is going to be fine.

Oh the sweet dreams that would be,
If I cared enough,
To do so,
I would.

Oddly finding the quiet woods is wonderfully peaceful.

But delightful it can be,
Something,
As simple as a monster,
To destroy it,
As,
That thing is born to do so.

But with a clear mind,
Marching on,
As little brother’s toy soldiers.

But that beast moves in gracefulness,
To that as stray cat strut,
Mocking,
Me,
As I keep moving through the woods.

It forever felt needlessly as a desperately heartless,
Way to dance with the devil.
What can one do?
But follow the dance to live.

For that demon know something,
And will blackmail one,
To understand that thin line of two worlds,
Will break,
And everything will fall apart.

Tears of an angel cry down from the moon,
Knowing and understand that very price.
Soaking everything misery,
But think nothing bad from it,
For it gives one chance to escape the monster’s prying eyes.
Even for only a little short time.

For even I know,
I never earned an angel.
My guardian angel would understand that in some form,
I’m not worth it.

Not even in pieces of the finest gold can prove it.

Maybe when older,
And again,
Blindly and foolishly,
I follow my mother’s footsteps,
My little girl will know better.

For that if she keeps a secret,
I can never keep her safe.
Oh-how the woods proven that so.

Yet,
Deep down that,
Dark in my imagination,
I know it come and kill me.

And she’ll never be safe and sound.

For that if I’m gone,
She’ll become his.
She’ll become daddy’s little girl.

Please woods,
End.
I want to go home.
Let the heavens kiss my eyes and lay to sleep,
Please!

If you want to fall in forever in that ring of fire,
Living with my sins,
I will.

Carelessly,
The demonic being of the forest,
Finds me once more,
Bitterly,
The words leave my mouth,
“I hate everything about you.”

That grin,
Jagged and sharp,
Unknowingly,
Activate my heart,
In,
The deepest form of pure fear,
Soaring within,
Me like little birds.

Once wrong move,
Everything good,
I know will never return to me.

In silence whispers,
It speaks,
“I want your bite.”
Moving,
Slowly with,
Each step to me,
With that grin forever plaster on its face.

Bite,
Only means life,
If the angels didn’t want me,
Hell would,
It’s going to be me or some other poor soul.

Deep down,
Everyone has that side,
They choice not to see it,
For when you’re evil,
You wish to hide for you care of others.

But it’s pointless,
When you sing soft of life,
Everything that there is,
My songs know what you did in the dark,
It is the last thing,
To know before everything goes black,
And all is fin.

It had become a special day for two. Set on a family own cherry wood table by the bare wall of gray slate stone, set on a rusty rose painted steel tray.

Hand crafted glasses, the shafts formed small dancers, for the holding wanting to seduce the drinker to join them, matching the slowly settling red wine.

A linger taste it gave once before, when a night just light happen oh-so long ago. Freshly picked, from, the vines as if, yesterday.

The laughter and utter joys it gave, when having the perfect matching drinking alongside. Feeling, the endless, fields of those, berries, taking the pink face lusher into a world of fantasy.

The soot coated bottle lying by near the glasses, in case another wants to feel that magical world again. Along with, the cork, keeping, the aroma from, leaving and flatting the gout.

Faint and weathered down from the years, kept on high shelves, the label is almost unreadable and puzzling. But the memories for it are forever fresh in the mind.

Not far and incase of needing to open a new bottle, the thereon polish screw popper, shiny of a metal element, aged well in years. Just as the tray, passed down, thru, family.

Nearing for a light snack, small baked brown sugar crumpets stack upon one another, a fine, copper line china plate.

Washed to brightest white in who knows how long, dust once covered it.

A special day for two, is set ready, all is needed for those two to remember those times to enjoy it.

Still Life: Two Glass of Red Wine, a Bottle of Wine; a Corkscrew and a Plate of Biscuits on a Tray by Albert Anker

Made year is unknown

Location when painted; unknown

Darkness has fallen down on this little town made of pine wood, stone of many, and thin plates of glass. For that winter nears, the people must be ready. Lingering, lights, from, the homes, sings softly, of burning fireplaces, cloth gas lamps, and small pale white, wax candles.

Those amber radiances match of the stars and waning moon, yet colder and unfriendly, but the colors bare that of rose, tan, creamy hues.

The flaming strides of the trees bend to the winds that keeper of winter could only do. Swirls of the fresh frosty airs blow faster and faster, for that greens near look as if their flames of hell. Trying, hard, to piece, the night skies, with each, lash. But, the stars of distance light beam brighter, to tame that lone flame.

That lonely sunburned moon, finds a way to smile happily, of those, people, below. Upon seeing, that town has slowly started to rest itself. Over those mountains, behind their bare colors of black and blue, slowly change lighter and lighter.

The new morn was nearing. It’s time to bid good dusk pleasant dreams, as well.

Closing, one, self-own lone window. Only having the little sprite keeper of, snow, sleet, and ice, cloak the once smooth window in a waving icy ferns, blinding everything in a new light to see, in a unworldly sight, of how maybe the sprite sees it too.

For one will not know, until maybe, the next night fall, that small sprite of mischief will come again, greet and show wonder this night. Until, this is only a good night, under the stars, in a restless sleep.

A Starry Night by Vincent Van Gogh

Made in June of 1889

Location when painted; Saint-Rémy-de-Provence Asylum, southern of France

Signs of the world ending, come in the most simplest of forms, yet hold the most powerful elements within.

Earth will shatter, breaking as easy as a thin plate of glass, plants withering away, once dark ground is painted in flames of terror and gore. Hell breaks through. All sins, fears, evils, and demons leap about, in the form of the devil.

But as the earth breaks, as does, the heavens of the skies. Goose wings spread longingly through the open air. A fair skin, kind eye, tender being, baring silk linin cloths of hues of blue and tinted bright orange, flows as a flake found only in the coldness, playful, soft gale of snow in the dead of winter.

In rare moments one of heaven and hell ever dare enter the lands of the living. Let alone, at the same time. Those moments are easy to tell. You could painfully laugh for no reason. Sleep peacefully with salty tears staining your face in the middle of the night. Finding death a passion and living a joke.

All things in life, within inches of the fine, fragile, lonesome, pale red, line of a balance.

How could this happen is question that has the most baffling answer. Every so often, a soul will wander the lands of living, fainted with smells of youthful lilies, feather-like skin of white, curly locks of short bourbon red, eyes peaceful yet empty incasing all before them in a deep mindset, and forever unknowing that small being will have to leave this world of ours.

Only out of thin air, unfamiliar fingers will graze the skin of the youngling, leaving small lines of warm, iron incented, sore rosy lines etching through his being.

Unclear noises of giggles and cries leave those frail lips. Echoes of faulty, yet, sweet words reach his ears.

Leaving, the child, unsure if it is, to follow, the warm, immoral, bitter, hazy world of Hell. Or let the mother-like, kind full, noble, salve, elite realm that is known as Heaven.

An endless . . . fruitless . . . nerving . . . pointless battle, which, will never end, even when, the sands of time do.

Angel and Devil fight for soul of child by Giacinto Gimignani

Made around the first half of 17^th century

Location of where painted; Rome, Italy

At the stroke of midnight, as the small town sleeps. A poor aging man plays a tuneless tune that was soft, caring, wistful, and fragile of only body man could call love. Playing endlessly until morning without stopping, to where his fingers are blistered and garish raw red from playing.

Having little and to nothing, but thin wears of clothing, keeping him, warm on the coldest nights. With his back laying heavily on the stone, cold, rough plaster walls of the building of where he sleeps.

Once thick and dark hair now faded to a ghostly white of thin transparent of twine. Eyes, once full, of endless goodness; as well, slowly drifted into grays of blindness and heedless. Only having, the fainted, memories of his love, guiding him, thoughtfully through, the harshness of life, itself.

Skin of white snow tinted with blue hues of dying, with wiry veins souring with copper and iron. Lacks of muscles hold the skin in place, having the rifts of fleshly folds sunken his face more.

Lingering smells danced upon his skin, masking in an odor of soiled dirt that he sat in every night, sweet bread and milk of meals past, fine oak from the very thing that kept his heart pumping and soul begging to come true. Oh, how he wished for her return. But leaving the heavens never seemed easy as others say.

If not for how he become then, he would have never found his love. In following years to come, on the corner of the street where a man of blue played through the starry nights of cool seasons, many can still hear his tuneless oak guitar strum the last notes as the winds fly by. As a reminder to hold dears one close, for who knows, when they are gone the next.

The Old Guitarist by Pablo Picasso

Made in the year 1903

Location of where painted; Barcelona, Spain

Sound of clashing waves, strike harshly against the tall mounts of rocky hills, in fast whipping motions. Echoes from onlookers, fishermen as spoke of how the bitter salty mistress keeps others away.

Sudden, the gray mist of clouds, part, ripping scars of blue hues of the sky in, along with a heated friendliness of the sun’s glow. Where the glow thrusts upon, seeing a weather down castle, of faded grays, browns, and mossy covered stone.

Open windows show no signs of life. Only the lone flyers, of native seagulls, in the sky, looking for safety away from the sea, with their faint caw calls echoing and twining with the clash of waves.

Yet, the feeling a ghostly haze sends shivers down the bones, of those fishermen that look past the clatter of anger waters, to see this haunting fortress.

How the shadows of black coat the walls, age the building more, distance glooms blow form a long a vale of death. Once more, the fishermen choice to stay and let the castle force dragged them into this powerful pull.

The elder knew better, yelling to the much younger one that it was time to leave, less risk falling into the same ending of those who couldn’t reach sandy land. Having the final thoughts their time there was over, as they watch their fellow sea walkers, still fighting and losing.

Soon be taken under by the dangerous love of the waters. Unknowingly, missing, of how, the waters of that blasted ruler of the wailing teal bitter sea rising higher and higher to them. Coming close to take them out to sea and never come back to their families ever again.

The elder man shouted to youngling again, missing of the last wave rising high and coming down on them. Leaving, only, their moldy, cracking boat of passing ages. Justly the same as their fellow members of sea walkers, though wished they got to taste the yellow, smooth, vast sandy lands.

Yet, only the green mossy, salt-covered rocks, and, the eerie castle, to see their fate.

A View of Tantallon Castle c. 1816 by Alexander Nasmyth

Made in the year 1816

Location when painted; east of North Berwick, in East Lothian, Scotland