Vincent Van Gogh

Written by William Kekaula |


For what's in a name,
That Shakespeare untamed,
A lyric gained fame,
But when it became,
A different ball game,
For one who's insane.

Yet if twin Yanks say 'Gogh', 'tis equivalent
might meant, to be, like 'goes',
Dutch disagree, cite, annunciation,
could fix, such they'd be a pair of 'gocks'


Even Vincent had known, he's ambivalent
torment, moody, strike those,
thought his eerie, sight, a nonsense equation,
darkness, much it'd be a paradox.


Decades of art, and some as oil paintings,
whereat, had most work made in just the last two years.
Persuades the heart, of similar taste seems,
fair that, Van Gogh's work may be yet the best there is.

Vincent van Gogh, Dutch Post-Impressionist,
world-renowned painter, influenced many.
Pigmented, though touch most, nevertheless,
hurled around saner, with few sense, had he.

Troubled man, Van Gogh, what laid paved the arts,
Vincent was, is, a talent none e'er seen.
Paul Gauguin, friend though, the scathed blade departs.
Synthesis, his, style meant one bare the mien.

Two, made into one and yet, two hath begun,
the thing, the world knew little thereof.
Few, failing to run and hit, whose ambition,
nothing, others grew mettle above.

Refute those, impressed with stabled light and color,
learned century's, choose and follows.
A route chose, obsessed myth dabbled night an ochre,
yearned sent flurries, hues in yellows.

Gawking black crows heard low, gave food for thought,
as it aches of harvest goes on, ignored.
Mocking back throes meadow, made good or aught,
basket-case the artist knows a reward.

The air bleak as a blue coils, across, squalls out one
Before a rolled Sun parts, the hazed.
A rare fleet cast of spew stars, the coarse, sprawls undone
On floor of frozen hearts, amazed.

The room with red laid on a bed, self portraits,
and a starry night, all that he drew.
Of gloom pith had said of the head, dealth worthless,
rend a sorry sight, saw hath be true.

Return he did and had journeyed once more
this to be thus, closing chapter of theirs
Determined bid an injurious score
pistolet à broche, used in château d'Auvers.  

At fields that lays on back, van Gogh's gun had meaning, on track
somewhere the aim had fated.
Askew's delays the trek, and no one hath seen him come back,
gun there unclaimed, laid hidden. 

Bedridden in pain, his next door
neighbor's alerted,
and speak to doctor Gachet,
The aide seen in vain, 'tis mentor
labors diverted,
send Theo without delay.


Know tho' no other, for such pastimes,
or a best brother, had died, that Vince,
he did, convinced he'd hath outsmarted the
creative sharpest, could brave hearts emerged.

Theo his brother, for much less time,
for the last juncture, had cried, yet since,
instead, saw Vince be it undoubtedly
a great of art's best, who'd gave art a surge.


Copyright ©

Author: William Kekaula
I am a retiree of the hospitality industry, presently, residing in my birthplace town of Hilo, Island of Hawaii, a.k.a. Big Island, in the 50th State of Hawaii, USA, and as a writer, I have a passion for poetry, fictional and nonfictional short stories.


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