Inkphrastica: The Shore Of Forever: Ken Pobo (Words) & Mark Sheeky (Oil Painting): Part 3 of an Ingmar Bergman Triptych

I stuff a clock in forever’s mouth
which it chews up,
spits out—time, a Giant Hogweed,
poisonous to touch, can even

blind you. My Aunt Stokesia
says she wants forever.
It means Heaven
where she’ll be—
that will be heavenly.
When forever calls, a salesman
who gets his foot in the door
and won’t stop talking—ever—

she freezes, wants to stop
time, the one thing it can’t do.
Death pops in,
a jack-in-the-box clown.
She runs to the basement and locks

the door. I’m already there.
I never liked clowns. I keep death
from claiming me one pill at a time.
I’m a shore,
the water dried up.

The Shore of Forever by Mark Sheeky: Oil Painting for sale

Inky Interview Special: Poet Ken Pobo From Pennsylvania

Inky Exclusive: Interview with multi talented artist Mark Sheeky

Inkphrastica: The Passion Of Anna: Ken Pobo (Words) & Mark Sheeky (Oil Painting): Part 2 of an Ingmar Bergman Triptych

My face, gone.
I stumbled around since
I had no eyes, hoped it would return
like the dog I lost in fifth grade.
I made coffee and even drove to work.
No one said anything. Perhaps
my face had been erased for years,
maybe since I was born,
only I kept picturing it there.
Is this common? Without a face,
I couldn’t see others. Had I ever?

The sky, I presume, still appeared,
a stale gray the same as my good suit.
I used to say my,
what a pretty world this is,
cornflowers blue as my grandmother’s
church hat, asters poking red swords
in a bloated breeze. I may dream
a whole new self tonight–

it’s happened before. Selves
form and melt, ice on a puddle.

The Passion of Anna: Artwork for sale by Mark Sheeky

Inky Interview Special: Poet Ken Pobo From Pennsylvania

Inky Exclusive: Interview with multi talented artist Mark Sheeky

Inkphrastica: Home Home Home: Ken Pobo (Words) & Mark Sheeky (Oil Painting): Part 1 of an Ingmar Bergman Triptych

Walls, a stapled mouth.
Broken oven. Dirty dishes.
Even still, I want home,
a good man to join me there,
a garden out back. Is home
breaking bubbles, faded footprints?
I may be here for decades. Years

look out on the flower bed
where we scattered
Mom’s ashes.
Forever lasts a few seconds.
Guatemalans run from their homes,
El Salvadorans too. On our street,
the same number of cars

each work day. This could be
ten years ago. Home,
where ghosts and the living mingle.
A room leads to
another room. An inexplicable
sudden breeze chills
though the one window is closed.

Home Home Home: Artwork for sale by Mark Sheeky

Inkphrastica: Song of Freedom Oasis by Rus Khomutoff (Words) & Now That’s What I Call Blue by Mark Sheeky (Oil Painting)

Usurp of the jonquil intervoid
happenstance arrival pending
a severing of the apparent encore
distant cries and
blossom bones enduring eternity
a face of genius in
full measure of the spectacular now
the explicit nevermind
of bulletproog passingness
always unfinished
song of freedom oasis
buying exits

Artwork: Now That’s What I Call Blue by Mark Sheeky

Rus Khomutoff’s Poetry