Saturday, April 11, 2009

Poem: The Dark Trilogy



(The Blinding)

Into the flesh
We come,
Maybe to sit
Maybe not so lucky
To experience
Life overshadowed.

I am vacant of survival.

The darkness
Is intense,
Terrorizing the dawn
To keep me inactive.
I am produced
To re-consume
And reconstruct
Intriguing motives.

I am feeble, buried under fools.

A pool of spirits
Continue to stalk
This example
Of puppets
Masking the wreckage.

I am the blind digging a hole.

“I am not
Exactly sure
What made
Creation grim,
Standing attractive
To the darkness,
Collective for display.”

Perhaps, I am a dog
A war monger,
Collapsing into
Meditative landscapes.



(The Howling)

Have I got feelings?

“The innermost touches unseen and unheard.”

No, I’ve nothing to depress
Everything is underlined
And denied.

I open
The remaining interest,
With a key
Of conviction
And composure.

Faint heartedly will I
Build borders
To be difficult,
If not impossible.

All of me seem caught in an opposite rhythm.


Am I too far?

I am far,
Too far,
From your hand,
Drifting into pieces.
The puzzle,
A nightmare of illusion.

I scream to the one
Behind the veil.
The veil shifts into ashes.

Veil of ashes.
Veil of ashes.


(The Ending)

On the final night,
I dealt with my most oblivious war
To progress my conscience.

Unfamiliar penalties
Marked on my back
For punishment
And participation.

“Oh why, oh why, did they not dance?”

I should
Be bodily well
To donate offenses,
Influencing clarity
To create
A sour taste.

Listen to the sound,
Listen to the voice.


There is a light.

Souls have declared
This place
A journey
To their conclusion
At the right time
And mourning.

There is a light.

There is a light
That never goes out.

©2009 Torrence King. All Rights Reserved. 


from Dead Artists Symmetry - To view and order go to:

Friday, April 10, 2009

Poem: Vox Humana (A Tribute to Mark Heard)

(A Tribute to Mark Heard 1951-1992)

11 O’clock
At a more accessible time.
All along the walk.
I knew you were right.
The controversy prepared
You for attempts
At missed perceptions.
Your hope
Is both wonderful and romantic
But hard to understand.
You are understood
Only by broken sinners
And true acquaintances
Who have matured me
By their darkest observations.

Your human condition
Celebrates uncomfortable messages.
I crash into them,
Hearing close
All who are fatherless.
When you spoke
Those famous cups
Of metaphors,
I opened an accidental passion,
Sent to inspire,
Intended to surprise.

The song never
Became relevant
To the ways of men.
God in the flesh
Could not tolerate
Such a small glimpse
Of the waterfall.


I must admit,
You may look
At these subtle descriptions
And continue to mock
The gathering of stones.

No substitution
For mercy,
A selection for orphans
Of God
Whose collection
Of hammers and nails
Offer your life,
A sacrifice.

“He was a child and a newcomer to the ways of the world /
Eyes ablaze with the light of high noon /
Just to love and to be love was all he wanted /
By the light of the lonely moon /
They taught him to capture and tame wild pathos /
Sold him distractions and made everyday seem the same /
Caught the Holy Ghost lurking in his cellar and threw him out /
Leaving just a lonely name /
Soon they took everything that he lived for /
So he asked them to please take his life too /
They denied him existence but they let him live /
In a lonely room.”

-“Lonely Moon”
Mark Heard

©2009 Torrence King. All Rights Reserved. 


from Dead Artists Symmetry - To view and order go to:

Tuesday, April 7, 2009

Poem: Recollection (Of Life and Mystery) from Dead Artists Symmetry

Recollection (Of Life and Mystery)


I was born
The son of my father
And it was not long
Until I discovered
My brother.

I have learned
Lessons of many
Thoughtless sorrows.
In my youth,
I feared death.
Forced to accept,
But never reject.

I held on to music
To fill my ears.
The voices and sounds
Of universal joy
And tears
Played within my heart
And within
These four walls.
Embracing my despair,
My fears
With all its love,
Its faith,
Its hope.

Through knowledge,
(Higher intellectual mind?)
I could never
Comprehend this calling.


Why was I chosen?
What am I here to find?

All these recollections
All this pondering.
I fall to the ground.
Here, in this mist of dreams,
She is loved.
And to touch her,
I am permitted
Yet nothing is there.
She is no more than
A mirage.
This love will be revealed.

Now, I see faces.
Faces of those gone.
I have lost so many
Loved ones and friends.
Far from this horrid realm.
Memories of them pass my thoughts
Like a runaway film.

I see the others.
The ones I faced.
Villains of a varied cast.
At times,
Even my enemies
Have betrayed me.

Then there are
My teachers,
The poor, the humble
The strong-willed.
It is their deeds that
Added colors to my character.
Striving to be like them
And wanting to accomplish more

Like them,
I await my fate.
The never-ending journey
Into the mystery.

“Beneath my face is a graveyard/All my days buried here…”
-“My Frontier” - Terry Scott Taylor/Daniel Amos

©2009 Torrence King. All Rights Reserved.

from the poetry-art book: Dead Artists Symmetry - Available Now

To view and order go to:

Monday, April 6, 2009

Poem: The Unbearable Likeness of Being Here

The Unbearable Likeness of Being Here

A wrong step somewhere,
I now gamble with the day
And the darkness,
Expecting resolutions
That are irreversible.

The value within reality
Cleared my mind.
But foreign precedence
Swept away matters
That factually
Share accomplishments.

Cutting primitive wounds
And continuing reflective struggles,
I will never understand
Why I am here;
A child of a gone world.
No longer a product,
No longer a shadow
Of myself.

“It use to feel so foolish,
It use to feel so useless.
There was a time before treachery,
There was a time before symmetry.”

I am here.
I am three days ahead,
Welcomed in paradise lost
And two years behind,
In the wild woods shivering.

I am tempted
To comfort specific efforts
Neither recorded
Or carried.
Meanwhile, in-between the walls of doubt,
These mustering questions
Grip surprisingly.

“This hour present
Is not where I belong.
In due time,
Will it ever be long?”


"When the doors of perception are cleansed, man will see things are they truly are, infinite." - William Blake

©2009 Torrence King. All Rights Reserved. From the poetry-art collection “Dead Artists Symmetry”

from the poetry-art book: Dead Artists Symmetry - Available Now

To view and order go to: