Opus 26543

11 December 2012

Corridors of horror

man leaves behind his wake.

Place gone and travels taken

to criss-cross  the whole round of the planet

with miasmas of lurking shadow

and places that the plants will not grow.

Rivers of blood still oozing through petrification,

suspended clouds of everlasting screams,

these upon the Earth are inflicted,

sweet Mother Earth,

wise Mentor Earth,

to make It groan through Its deepest hollows

at what She has had to bear.

Places we make, we things with arms and feet,

that chill a passing person with unnamed terror,

where the clouds of the dead blot out Sunlight,

casting the land to a hollow of lamentation.

Hardly has this ambulant race

inflicted malice beyond his capacity

to make the Planet ominous,

a specially dreaded quarter

in the Solar System and the Galaxy.

Telescopes cannot see the background malice,

nor can man at close distance.

And yet, of all we've seen,

the worst come later is unimaginably greater.



Opus 27187

23 March 2014

THERE ARE THOSE who hate surprises.

In their walks on counted pavements

make they world of sealed dimensions.

Long a life of routine passing

comes a death, not having lived.

Round and round, of streets and houses,

is this world of clockwork boredom,

suicide at all prevented

by a stupefying numbness.

Past and future not existing,

present treated as eternal,

do absorbent organisms

suck the life and make it blackness.

Clouds of oily selfishness

bring shadows under noonday Sun, 

subliminal, surreal a menace

showing seems beneath the pleasant,

these are what in numbered doorways

soon emerge to show their natures.

How's it to escape this dreaded?

Where does nightmare and illusion

give way to night's starry sweetness?

By the presence of the unpredicted

of those aspects oft appearing

of a scheme not known to reason,

having as its closet ally

spirit called Coincidence,

Purveyor of the Grand Unknown,

that stands at probability

with flaming sword and blinding shield.

Of synchronicity, the lifeblood

of the Universe in working,

counterpoint coordinated,

do I praise the inspiration

of the whisperings of the Muses.


Opus 27193

24 March 2014

Cobble, brick, and iron railing

give to way the scene his coming.

Down the walk a shadow casting,

carries him his secret world.

At the passerby he leers, 

as if to say: "Do not come near me.

In a world to yours is larger

am I one of great and many.

Not for you, its scope and nature.

Look away, and mind your business."


On he goes, that old base creature, 

here before the pavements walked,

and wiser than the oldest living.

Do not study long his eyes,

for what they window they can show.

To draw you in, to make you welcome, 

is an honor shown to few.

For even fewer can survive,

and those who do will not describe it.

In his shape, that dark fast shadow,

in the streets of others lurking,

walks a thing as old as earth.

Short to say, it's always been there,

of that leering glance to sidelong,

from a shadow to a shadow,

humans, living need concern not.

© 1993-2017 | All artwork by Pieter Vanderbeck.

Photographs by Nathaniel Becker & Brendan Wiltse.

Photographs of drawings by Brett Rutherford.

Pieter Vanderbeck

7 Governor Street

Providence, RI 02906