House of Rain (For Erica J.)

Thanks for the rain.
It is now my home
away from that warm slurry sealed
street in the north
tucked away safe
in the seven hills,
traveling south
to the beaches
on that warm sticky sand
lain open
on the flat First Coast.

Thanks for the rain.
I forgot my home
With the houses so close,
the neighbors could reach
into the window and across
your table to pass you the salt.
I remember my home
with anger so close,
the neighbors could reach
into the window across
the table past the salt
to pull me into comfort.

Thanks for the rain.
I return now to my home
with the ease
of the seasonal rain
and the promise
of love and growth.
I never really left my home
without the unease
of the season's storm
and the promise
of loss and rebirth.

Thanks for the rain.
The middle child in my home,
I defied more than the cold
outside, I defied
the fire and violence inside
that only the rain could quench.
Child standing firmly in the middle,
I defied the married cold
inside, I embraced
the solitary violence outside
that only the storms could quell.

Thanks for the rain,
from my home I couldn't see
the brightness of the rainbow
that you saw, yet I know
of that symbol of hope
and will always remain in the gray.
My home of rain,
with walls of gray
are sturdier than other's mansions of deceit,
and rely on my foundation of love and truth.

Thanks for the rain
I know of the warning
of turned leaves
as I sat on the front porch
and felt the lightning
between my eyes.
I sometimes ignored the warning.
Naked, I turned leaves upon myself
as I fled the front porch
feeling the pain of the thunder
between my ears.

And I thank you for the rain.

The music in my house
seemed more a walk for the dead
past my neighbors, down
the same street I scraped
along with bare feet.
Now, music is my window
of a house filled
with the lessons of fearlessness.
I now dance up that street
with callused feet and legs of strength.

I thank you for the rain,
I now offer this gift.

© Edgar Zeh

Myth of Marriage (ten years later and you have one child)

She's been taking notes all her life.
Something she forgot to re-read.
And she is still oblivious to her strife.

In the kitchen, she washes dishes, puts away a knife.
Later, she'll write of warnings she should heed.
She's been taking notes all her life.

All she really wanted was to be a Mrs., a wife.
Resting those mothers' hips, from her breast she'll feed
And she is still oblivious to her strife.

Oh, the joys of raising children are rife.
To serve and share is all she will need.
She's been taking notes all her life.

Thinking life musical, as her teeth scratch the fife.
In position for prayer, with hopes she'll bleed.
And she is still oblivious to her strife.

A new subscription to "Millennium Housewife".
Any information to be sure the marriage will succeed.
She's been taking notes all her life
And she is still oblivious to her strife.

© Edgar Zeh

Master Gardner

The garden wrought with seed and pain.
Cracked from drought from the sun in the past.
Then he learned to weed under the rain.

At times the gardener was thought not sane.
Prescribed assistance didn't seem to last.
The garden wrought with seed and pain.

So the gardener packed his tools, took a plane
to a greener place where growth came fast
Then he learned to weed under the rain.

He knew the harvest not for material gain.
But a search for life was cast.
The garden wrought with seed and pain.

Once the moon fall, it shall soon begin to wane.
The sun follows with a scorching blast.
Then he learned to weed under the rain.

He now harvest more than fruit and grain.
His spirit strong, the wisdom vast.
The garden wrought with seed and pain.
He learned to weed under the rain.

© Edgar Zeh

The Nude Series: Works on Paper

© Edgar Zeh

Chameleon #2
pastel on paper

Male Nude #1 (french translation)
ink/collage on paper

Female Nude #1 (french translation)
ink/collage on paper

Venus-two-thousand-and-one
graphite on paper

Mixed Media Series: Works on Paper

© Edgar Zeh

ambient #2

The Ballad of Dorothy Parker (detail)
(Deconstructionist Remix #1)
mixed media, acrylic, collage

detail of ambient #2

Jesus in Your Pocket

When you’ve got
Jesus
in your pocket.
You have
everything,
just like the Jones’ and all the others.

With Jesus
among the lint in my pockets,
I have
the right to everything.
Hands deep in my trousers, I am like the chosen others.
The Lepers, the sinners, tax collectors and all they got.

Within their doors and pockets,
they have
been stripped of everything.
Stripped of locks and linens that belonged to others.
Severed alliances that begot
the blasphemous who called themselves “Jesus”.

What do you have?
You say “I have everything
I ever wanted, more than others.
More than the Sodomites, the Philistines who got
what they deserved from Jesus
in your pocket.

I lost everything.
More lost than the others,
I pissed away as soon as I got.
The pants went into the washing machine with Jesus
in my pocket.
Now, what do I have?

Torn edges like the other
remains of gum wrappers and phone numbers I got
in darkened places, where Jesus
wouldn’t be caught dead emptying his pockets
on road whores and the treasures they have.
After all you can’t have everything.

Remember, when everything seems wrong, once you’ve got Jesus in your pocket,
You will have more than some and slightly less than others.

© Edgar Zeh

The Season

You are color.
And with it, you bring the need
for more.
Hot and cool breezes,
water and sunlight
spilling it’s special dye
across my skin.

Hands can feel the heat
that you share
around my throat.

Eyes can see the celebration,
under your design,
against my stomach.

Mouths can taste,
the salt you bring
from my pores.

Nights that are as thick as my love.
And desire.
Bare feet scraping
across cool sticky puddles,
following the path
to your summons.
An addiction, absolute.

© Edgar Zeh

Tongue Nectar

These demons that fight
lie next to me as lovers
and when you do, you will know,
because they have named me.
They have clothed me.
Each of them have kissed me
on the mouth
and taken my words.
Manna, honey
from beneath my tongue
tasting of the virgin
and the morrow’s consummation.
And yes each of them had lain with me
and fed from my sex,
as the nectar
fed their bellies
and the conception
became the birth of my shame.

The shame that is our offspring.
The shame that is our child

I am living with demons
you have yet to meet
and when you do
you will know,
because I have named them.
I have clothed them.
I have kissed each of them
on the mouth.
Saliva, bile
beneath my tongue
tasting of last night’s sex
and tomorrow’s after birth.
And yes, I have lain with each of them
and fed from their sex,
as the nectar coated my throat
and the conception
became the birth of my voice.

The voice that is my offspring.
The voice that is my child.

© Edgar Zeh

Reluctant Buddha

I returned
From the west
In still anticipation
Of the answer
That I would allow to find me
Hiding.
Securely of the insecure,
the impatient prophet
of existentialism,
Thomas to be proven.
The reluctant Buddha in his medicated meditation.

I returned
from the West.
A teacher from the east.
Friend in the north,
lover in the south.
One hand upon the compass,
blind to its directions
by choice.
The wind cried the name of my muse,
as the last ave, ave tickles the roof of my mouth,
and the sound of perfection pushes from inside my skull,
which returns my answers to her cry.

Disenchanted Bodhisattva!
You trip through samsara
as a jump rope on the school playground

One potato, two potato, three potato four
Five potato, six potato, seven potato more?

With only two lives left, I wonder?
Could reincarnation occur after the resurrection,
or is it just another incarnation
with a little more pain?

While Christ stated “potatoe”
Gotama answered “potato”:
I simply cried “spud”

With outstretched arms, I declare
“pomme de terre!, pomme de terre!”

And I am of the soil as Satan’s piss,
streams across the vines that connect the tubers,
This is a prayer for the earth.

And I returned
from the west,
a teacher from the east.
I now compass for answers I hold ,
as my premonitions unfold as clearly as my memorization
of the lord’s prayer.

“And hallowed be
thy name thy kingdom come, thy will be done,
as the reluctant Buddha to the backsliding baptized.

I returned from the west a teacher to the east.

© Edgar Zeh

Edgar Zeh is an award winning fine artist, illustrator, spoken word and performance artist from Cincinnati, OH. In 2004, Edgar collaborated with photographer Sherri Ebert (www.ebertimages.com) for the award winning poetry/photo album, "Portrait of a Poet," where he was featured model and poet. The collaboration received international acclaim including the Fuji Masterpiece Award. He was also featured on the www.semantikon.com site, and has been included in galleries and venues in St. Augustine and Jacksonville, FL and in Cincinnati, OH. To contact this artist, click here.