The Poetic Verse & Art of Valisa Bernardino

I don\’t know if many are you aware but as well as being a PHENOMENAL Artist Valisa Bernardino\’s talent for poetry genuinely rivals her art. The inception of her entity is fuelled by both these gorgeous mediums of expressions.  I\’ve been after Val for a while now to FINALLY put a book together — that houses the duality with in the mediums of her artistic impressions.  One thing about Val too, her ethic is undeniable and her imagination MAGNIFICENT. Oh, aside from the poetry I secretly harvested these pieces from Val\’s Instagram.  From portraits to freaky images of licked broken unicorn horns, Val constantly stretches her art muscle by experimenting and drawing whatever suits her fancy. I love that she creates from a truly altruistic place.  For more info on Val check her out on Instagram @vali_saurus . 

I\’ve stolen the collateral of walls
And convinced my shadow
That we drink the water for one
So our mouths would not stir
About the rumor of tamed humming
I\’ve got the code of dawn
Braided on my ivory
And in twisted tongue on the verb of will
There\’s a red tickle I\’ve dropped
From the sweetheart hinge of scratching
That cribs laughter from lung
Into the neighboring lap of weeping thigh
And slides down the sound
Of my growling bones as they levitate
I called for a more sapient mirror
But there are none
All the color from the prowl of rusted sigh
Disrupts the fever\’s argument with breast
It is barbed and soothing
And forks the noise of measure
Growing up beneath me
Where the itch welcomes metaphor
My long-winded lesions are
Printed with a plume upon damp nerve
And surrender to the scented whim of first fingerprints
I am warm and fed
And I will stay away

Time practices with an amnesic ear and ages loudly
I remember when Winter started in whispers
Then lead to repeat a unique cultivation
Into the rare grace of Spring

I have no urgency to listen
To the tall tales of my attic
I remember how it feels to watch
The bellowing frolic of a glassed body
It moved to disguise the slant and oddities
That were shared only
To host the archaic definitions of my name

I refuse to write
If only to supplement a circling theme of question
Or to make speeches on the back of turning season
Or for the monotonous crowd that pretends to be thunder
Or for a list of refusals

Or……for you.

I\’ve seen the inner workings of a jaded midnight
And how it is mistaken for language of green acuteness
The consistency adjusts to a chasing tone
That is too loud to be absolute
It is split by damp hands and reduced to
Imitating the sequel of a budding sun

I cannot come here
To recite the cure of lines
Nor worship the crucified verse

I cannot be lured away by the rumor of outside

I find it strange there are poets
That hurry an honest night and the gasp of love
For the awful dream of being nailed to ancient walls
The cycle of waking keeps them just warm enough
And I am unsurprised by absence of a willing wait

I am longing for it all to break
When it is no longer poetry to shut myself away
When I no longer deliver postscripts
Into the lap of sarcasm
When this is not a pathetic effort
To hide the odd gesture of my stride
When I don\’t have to explain the footstep of answer
Or that is one of them.

“Are you still writing?\”
I noted the lack of drag in question
And felt something like a thief
Because the means and travel of my eye
Could not be seen

I hear the words linger
In nagging of echoes
And the shape of whispers
At the salt upon my grain

And I cannot speak.

I cannot pull all the noise
From the canopy of voices
I can only recognize them
By the places they’ve been

In the strange curtains of liability
It is the cross of tales
Too telling of the contents
The outline that strains
In some weird perversion for
The risk of certainty outside of the stretch

In the vineyard of promise
There is no mourning for the wilted beauty
That moves the blushing roots that hush
My fingertips’ crying chafe
The scent is arching and sweet
And I am just stalk and prey
Pressing upon thin

There’s this eye patch of caution
Where my bandages wrestle
I remember the face of delicacy
Inside of vicious bite
It swells and turns into inexplicable smiles

And sometimes I just want to be the seventh day
With no reservation about my lack of name

Have you seen the shadow décor of dregs?
When the tracks are war consumed
A hasty stir
Follows the urgent trail
That tickles the pulse of ankles
They are the petal gowns
Beneath my naked feet
That tell me,
“It’s okay to run this time.”

They’ve been tethered to a plum sickness
That moves in song of adoring shades
There is no mystery to the way I worship
The secret is my spring tide principle
There is nothing else that keeps me whole
Sometimes it’s an orchid’s shove
Or the violence in the soft hands of a deep amethyst
That demands I always return

There are unfamiliar places too
Something gaudy
Like the sun working a graveyard shift
Or Eskimo kiss affairs with the Son

Places I refuse to accept.

Their challenge has an unusual body
I visit there with fallen leaf behavior
Because the lack of control
Has the intention of destination
And the confusion that exhausts my nature
Becomes harmless

I wonder what my intimacy
With these places would look like
If I let them meet the enamel fencing
Guarded by a loud stare
Instead my insides tiptoe
And my head shakes

But the ground –
It always shakes back

To remind me of how I walk in circles
Because maybe all of my love
Is in the future
And I have nowhere else to go here

I wish I didn’t know the habitual residence
That rides along the roof of mouth

“Yeah, I still write.”

But I\’ve grown old in these words
And I keep the explanation
Wrapped in a tourniquet, tucked beneath muscle
Because sometimes my strides
Need more than question for a rainy day


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