Monthly Archives: November 2011

I don’t know what this song is about..


I don’t know what this song is about

It’s only a mood, no words, just pictures

There are no capitals, no punctuation, the words just come down

Onto the paper and then float away

I think it’s a photograph of life, a picture of it

And right now it’s floating high

But its something far away, bigger than life

like a cloud, and I’m trying to draw it in real size

on a tiny piece of paper

It doesn’t even fit in the room so I’ll draw dots around it

And connect them with a song.

I won’t try to write them down

I’m sending them on to another place

A different place to be..


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False Morning

by Matthew Kenneth Kosak

Sometimes the last remains of light

On a high peak, rose colored, on dead snow

Is inspiring like a false morning

You think it’s coming, and it’s almost gone

You think it’s gone but it’s almost begun

I thought you’d left, but that was before.

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The Self That Paints Alone and Hidden

by Matthew Kenneth Kosak

But don’t these clouds, like sculpted flowers

Rise hot, in June’s summer gardens?

And Time speaks softly in the wind

Of change and bright things yet to come

And they in their course take their places

As plants grow and populate a self-checked sky?

I exchange these hazy views of eternity

For the words with which my poor pencil writes

You were once of the lovely things

My child in my eye took, gleaning from nature

And now you have taken what’s been given

The echo of your voice rings in the things

That transport a reflection through space

Of the self, that paints alone and hidden.

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Flavors of it

by Matthew Kenneth Kosak

..He imagined the book filled of papyrus,
the English turned to ancient writings now foreign to him,
scratchings, cuneiforms. What then?
Words are dreams and dreams become time,
Flavors of it,

like sunsets and her walking in the morning
barefoot through grass. The distilled product of the manuscript
that fills volumes of space seems merely a fraction of it,

though a complete dream, uttered in a chorus
spoken by different voices that differentiates its
substance into states, and dimensions,
is more ancient architecture.

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Smashing Quietly Through Walls

by Matthew Kenneth Kosak

Books can lead the assault,
their words smashing quietly
through walls of doubt and into the depths,
uncovering vast tracts of untapped knowledge,
things not yet known to be unknown.
Making ripples in the quiet pools of pessimism.
Chiseling wisdom from the raw stone of ignorance.

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by Matthew Kenneth Kosak

I cannot be a scientist because I'm an artist and can't be an artist because I'm a scientist.. A paradox. I will continue to defy 'the rules' and am living proof that science is flawed in thinking that years of system training is superior to the natural ability of the mind.

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‘CHALK GARDEN ART’ Impromptu…October twenty second ,nine a.m.

by Matthew Kenneth Kosak
Take me into an azure chalk sky, parch my lips
Keep walking don’t look back- see your hips
Black the bird on the olive tree, paint it there
Borrow black from your hair, paint the night
Paint your eyes for me, though stars keep them bright
The blue i’ll take from you, wrapped you round’ in lines
My eye see- your- grace –form-up –high- the- sky, behind cloud
Stir me from sleep in a coffee cup, add sugar cube, break loud
Tread the dust of a chalk garden, in hair, get it under nails
We find words cuneiform cuneiform, chalk envelopes, hidden
Beneath beds of roses, Cleopatra and Marc Antony
In Ceasar’s garden, I’ll make you a salad, roses and vermillion
Lie you on stone, silk, cool night, warm breath, here come the sun
Need some time, break a clock, steal the hands
Dip the ‘phoenix’ in its own blood,
give me time, be kind, you’re not the only one.


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