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A Dream
A Dream: The Omen in the Raven’s Wing The desert night is long, and in its depths, my garden becomes a mystical stage. Bronze figures loom in the moonlight, their silent gazes fixed on secrets only the wind knows. Here, among gnarled branches and the blooming leaves, I find myself in the company of shadows, most faithfully embodied by the ravens, owls and crows. These night birds are not simply muses: they are omens, harbingers of a truth both terrible and beautiful. They are the ink-stained souls moving with passion. They are not the bearers of simple inspiration, but the messengers of a darker and more beautiful fate. Life is not always the poetry born of joy, but sometimes birthed from sorrow, or the constant ache of existence. It is the shadow that lies at the heart of light. Think of the raven in Edgar Allen Poe’s poem ‘The Raven’ He asks the raven a question of great and sorrowful importance and the raven only says, “Nevermore” leaving the poet with great sadness and never-ending angst. I, to seek answers from these midnight visitors. I sit in my studio, the large sliding doors framing a landscape drenched in the melancholy of twilight and wait for the words to come. They arrive on the breath of something hidden, in the rasping caw of a crow, or in the unsettling silence that precedes a raven’s flight. But there is always an ambiguity, a sense that the message is not entirely for me, that it’s a fragment torn from a larger, unknowable story. “The river is moving. The blackbird must be flying.” The poet Wallace Stevens offers a glimpse of something profound, but it is fleeting. The river of time carries us inexorably toward the unknown. And these blackbirds, they remind us of this. They are a constant token of the ephemeral nature of beauty. The blackbirds circle, and they will find you. Perhaps they are psychopomps, guides to a realm I am not yet ready to enter. Or perhaps they are simply reminders that even in this private garden, amidst the abundance of life, death is always present, waiting. The poetry that comes to me in these hours is not gentle. It is a brutal excavation, a tearing away of the veil to reveal the raw, unflinching truth. It demands a reckoning with loss, with the inevitable decay of all things. And the ravens and crows, they are the witnesses to this struggle, their obsidian eyes reflecting the darkness I find within myself. I am the garden, and the Blackbird are poems with wings. I don’t seek solace in my poetry. I find clarity. The ravens and the crows are not comforters, they are agents of the Fates. They remind me of the fragility of existence, the inevitability of loss. And in their presence, I am allowed to confront my own personal shadows. The messenger, the Blackbird has come, and he will come again and again and again. This is why I write poetry. Words and image © Gesso Cocteau 2025
The Owl
The Owl I wanted to find a reason why I disappeared. Then the owl came circling my thoughts ___ seducing my mind slowly subtly coming closer. Perched upon a broken branch, his indifference abstract and imposing revealed my need for meaning, for dark quiet places of intensity. Sometimes I feel myself dissolving into space, I get smaller and smaller until I no longer exist. (meanwhile) ____ the self shaped by desire exposed by my insatiable need moves ever closer to the fire. But nothing will keep us alive. I dreamt I asked the fates why I was being driven by transitory lust. (the fates answered) “Meaning only exists when you are looking for it, it will tempt you like a lover and leave you like a beggar.” And I thought to myself god, isn’t this what living is? The wanting that feeds you the raging storm that seduces you and always the need for more. I love the way we hungered for one another the sensuality, the greed and the thirst. Our bodies wrapped in the animalism of urge the predatory talons of infatuation. Then I realized what nourishes us also destroys us. I have felt my life unwind like threads, pulling me forward and backward, until it’s hard to put the pieces back together. Tonight, the gilded owl called out my name, his voice so familiar, his eyes dark and sad. ___ did you even notice I disappeared? Gesso Cocteau 2025
Dark Bird
Dark Bird Why do we reduce reality to one octave,to simplify, to survive?The magnum opus hums just beyond reachof the dark bird’s wingbeat, a secret fracturing the air. The universe sings in undertones,notes lost in the stillness of cravingyet we long for ____something small enough to hold,to press against our soulwhen the silence grows too loud. But the poet knows ____truth lives in the marrow of darkness,in the animal lust of want.To write is to descend,to press a hand to the pulse of shadow,where hunger is raw and unspoken. Underneath, desire is an echo,a body remembering itself,flesh yearning for the myth of touch,primal, unfiltered,like the first fire licking the cave walls,like the stillness before a name is given. We forget the wind carries secrets,that roots hum beneath the soil,that light itself is a chorusspilling gold into morning. But we choose the known,a scale we can master,a pattern we can repeat,fearing the infinite songthat might undo us. And yet,in the pause between heartbeats,in the quiet before ____ the dark bird sings,in the spaces where the music falters,something lingers,an undertone,a world ____waiting. © Gesso Cocteau
At the Edge of Fall
At the Edge of Fall This is the time when leaves surrender slowly. How beautiful it is to let things go. The air carries a transient light that gilds the darkening sky reminding me of when I was young, standing at the edge of fall. The elements are swirling together, invisible and weightless ____ a sign of restlessness. Today, I was thinking about you, how you felt beneath my hands like the colors of autumn, amber and gold. (You were like the impending winter ____ a note of bittersweet) When I first sat at the piano I thought I was in love. I bled dark keys into melodies trying to find your heart. The wild black crow you gave to me has never left my side, you said he was a symbol of my darkness and my dreams. And the fire of my youth burned fierce and wild. The ache of your absence remainswoven into the fabric of my being. ____ It seems like a thousand years ago but I can still feel you next to me. (this is the force of destiny) Now ____ your death reminds me of this time of year. I still miss your voice, the way you spoke my name. The way you looked at me from across the room. This is a testament to you, to love and to those rare moments that slip through time. I will always be the unfinished poem waiting for you, standing at the edge of fall. © Gesso Cocteau
The Fallen Tree
The Fallen TreeThe tree had fallen,there was no sign of conflictno sign of struggle,just the roots separatedfrom the groundas though itsomehow knewit did not exclusivelybelong to this earth.It looked at mefrom eyes tangled deepwithin the quiet of its husk.Its soul was beginning to wanderand the bird who knew this treebecame a witness to its death.(in-between the silence and the grave)Secretsgrounded into shadowsand my desire for youstill feels like sandpaper upon my tongue,____ vampires in my soul.(Sorrow is not translatable)So, you said you wanted meto write you a poem,it’s harder than I thought it would be.Sometimes I feel likethat fallen tree.The birds camethey had no messagesonly feathers, eyes and mythology.The Raven lingeredabove the dying woodstarring into the voidas I wrote this poem.Sometimes things end as they should ____this is my poem for you. © Gesso Cocteau
Imagination
Imagination “If you ask me what I came to do in this world, I, an artist, will answer you: I am here to live out loud.” – Émile Zola Imagination is the light that gives passion to our lives. To imagine is to lift ourselves beyond the constraints of the mundane and into the world we dream and imagine. As children, we fly on the wings of our dreams, unburdened by the weight of reality. In childhood, imagination is the key to looking at things differently. When we are young, we have a natural love for daydreaming. Pablo Picasso wrote, “Every child is an artist; the problem is staying an artist when you grow up.” Creativity blooms from the fertile soil of imagination, implanting originality into our actions. It’s the fresh blood flowing in our veins, invigorating every endeavor with uniqueness. Imagination pulls people out of the depths of depression and psychological distress by removing the fear factor. It changes our perspective, infusing life with hope and possibility. The freedom of expression in our dream world cultivates a positive attitude. Imagination allows us to explore and express without bounds, nurturing a sense of joy and optimism. The great artist poet William Blake wrote, “The imagination is not a state: it is the human existence itself.” When you nurture your imagination, you hold the universe in your hands. Dream and let your imagination take flight, explore realms beyond the ordinary. Remember, we are what we think about ourselves, and whatever we can imagine holds the potential to become reality one day. Imagination is brilliance playing without any rules! Be a dreamer. Let your imagination soar, chase the shadows it casts on the earth. Always remember “the most beautiful things we can experience is the mysterious.” Imagination is magic! © Gesso Cocteau
Thinking of my Husband
MY HUSBAND I live everyday with the taste of him upon my flesh. His scent and his voice whisper to me throughout the day, and when we stand together our shadow is one. I love him because he is rare, because he kisses me until the sun comes up and because he is dangerous and impossible because I never want to wake up from this dream without him. Excerpt from the poem ‘My Husband’ 2024 Gesso Cocteau©
You, the Birds, and I
You, the Birds, and I You had written ____ I remember the words like music falling upon my skin. You said you knew me, ___and the poems I wrote for you were markers like leaves in the wind showing us the movement of our lust. I perceived you as if you were with me in the garden laying next to me between night and the earth. The moon’s sojourn had begun and we were part of that journey. Who could say if this was a dream or real? And I would unfold my body into yours, where I belong beneath the hands of your words, conducting my emotions. Rising and falling watching the stars knowing we are timeless coherent and open. I am thinking ____ you the birds and I beneath the darkened midnight sky. Night ____ night. © Gesso Cocteau “The music is not in the notes, but in the silence between.” ― Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart
Beyond The Mystery
I have nature and art and poetry, and if that is not enough, what is enough?” I have often thought that mystery is at the heart of creativity. When we let go of process and we can fall into the stream of creating we express the curiosity of mystery. For me, the act of sculpting carries a sacred resonance. I become the clay and the tools as my hands decipher dreams and metaphors. I become the symbols that I find on the bark of trees or swirling in the desert sands. I feed my clay my ideas and my thoughts, I linger in the ethers of an enigma, losing myself and finding myself ____ sculpting an elastic reality. It takes a certain chaos to create, and the mystery is what is constantly unraveling before us. It spills out into our consciousness in frighteningly beautiful ways. It leads you to your soul. It is pain and pleasure, trouble and desire, disappointment and surprise. It is the amalgam of our sensory reactions that is necessary to open our eyes to what is possible. It is not a coincidence that artists display a tendency to love and to demonstrate passion beyond the ordinary. Art becomes the idea that we are beyond the swarm, beyond the everyday details of life. We want to take the viewer or the reader or the listener on an adventure. Travelling through our creations, we offer wings to the viewer, inviting them to soar beyond the confines of ordinary perception and into the vast expanse of imagination. It takes courage to create, to tell your own personal truth, to be honest with yourself. It is the purity of truth that takes us into the deepest parts of ourselves. Truth has a life of its own. In this pursuit of truth, we are led to the deepest recesses of our being, where the purity of authenticity ignites a transformative journey. The senses of your soul will take you to new heights if you allow your preconceptions to dissipate. Tell the truth, shame the devil and never look back. As artists, we are perpetual seekers of the ineffable, forever entwined with the allure of mystery, passion, and magic. We are drawn to the interplay of light and shadow, the juxtaposition of feathers and stones, the boundless expanse of sky meeting earth. In the words of Vincent van Gogh, "I have nature and art and poetry, and if that is not enough, what is enough?" Let us continue to nourish our creative spirits with the sustenance of mystery, passion, truth, and boundless imagination. And if you are not finding what you are looking for, maybe put your wings on backwards and see where they take you ____ they might just take you somewhere new. R.I.P. Micha von Doring © Gesso Cocteau