Elbows on the Table...

          Elbows on the Table

The steam rose into the passages

As passing trays of Chinese delight,

A dash here, a dash there his plate.

Rosy lines of poetry, rhyme to hell,

Give me the spicy stuff with tang,

Pile the plates so high, can be done.

Table full of eats of all kinds so nice

As his eyes looked down saw none,

Anger of such blindness of hatred.

Raising his arms V of vindictiveness

Eyes pointed to the heavens beyond

All spouting curses God’s ears heard.

God looked not away though so hurt,

The son He loved and always will, He

Understood the pains of such unknown.

But He was only God, here so helpless,

His son drowning in His sights He cried.

Why, God knew not, Love fools God too.

Pounding, pounding elbows on the table,

He screamed out, “To hell with you all,”

And they all knew his pains God said.

For they nailed His son’s hands and feet

After jeering sounds towards a man with

A cross he beared across stone streets.

These were the ones his love so adored,

The ones of the fears she had to obey,

Go away they say you are not the one.

With their voices she said go away, away,

She cried not she needed no man though,

She lied to God and self all for they man.

Elbows on the table, he looked down to

The hells below and prayed, “God, forgive

Them, for they know not what they do.

-- Steven Louis Ernest

"Worn Out": An Ode to van Gogh

“Worn Out”: An Ode to van Gogh

Stroking charcoal struck the canvas with lightning,

His smile widening with each swirl of his wild arm,

The laughter within bursting at the seams to fools.

Fools to think he thought so simply plain all to see,

Worn Out the old man, oh, what a simple thought

To use as bait to the fishes of the sane world not.

With each glee his pains and torments eased for a

Moment of peace and happiness, in that, revenge

To those demon humans with penetrating pin eyes.

Pin, needles through his skull to screaming brain,

Why could they not see and feel beyond the paint,

Beyond the pastels of the black and grey to deep.

To deep beyond the touch of powered chalk and 

Oils of colors into the land of spirit and soul of God,

The Man’s fingers touching his mind asking for more.

Worn Out his joke on man for the old man is more than

What the eyes see for is the old man tired of weakness

Maybe, but could be an old man’s thoughts of fallen love.

Dreaming of past days in arms of his lady, his woman,

His reason for living, in his knuckled hands holding her

So tight, his reason for living having those old dreams.

Tunes, songs through his mind knowing his greatness,

Knowing none will see until his death has come, hands

with force slashing black and grey envy of the old man.

“van Gogh!” he shouted to himself, “Why!” to the ladies

Of his love, why no love for one named “van Gogh,” why,

As his heart shrunk in resentment of Worn Out old man.

– Steven Louis Ernest

https://www.poemhunter.com/i/ebooks/pdf/elizabeth_barrett_browning_2012_7.pdf

https://www.vangoghmuseum.nl/en

https://mymodernmet.com/van-gogh-worn-out-sketch/