The gods of artistry have spoken. So has my Inner Michael. I loved how Michael would invite and feature artists he admired. So the gods (and Michael) whispered: "So invite them!" I have met some talented people on this journey and I have been in the arts long enough to recognize Le Artiste`. So I have invited them here... all for love. Enjoy.


Sleep, My Friend ~by Patrick Treacy

Patrick Treacy met Michael Jackson and Michael brought up Dr. Treacy's work in Africa and thanked him for what he was contributing to the culture. Treacy was surprised that Michael knew of his work.

When Michael moved to Ireland with his family, he and Dr. Treacy became friends. I invited Patrick Treacy to write whatever he wanted that I might post for him. In a comment at Inner Michael, this is what he sent:

Patrick Treacy 7:33am Oct 16
I just wrote this and posted it. It's called 'Sleep, my Friend'


'Sleep my friend! For the dawn will come again in another time,
And your kindly soul can finds some solitude at last,
Rest, as your seedlings grow and sparkle from the vine,
And children laugh and play as God above looks down

On that other morn, as sun will strike the earth with shafts of light,
And ripened grapes shake and gently tremble on the boughs,
As mountain streams stall and turn back around their paths,
The heavens open and each man falls prostrate on the ground

And Jesus comes amongst us, as propechies of the past did fortell,
Your rested body then wakes from the slumber of the age,
Rose scented petals fill the Temple, falling, circling all around
And you shall rise and take your rightly place by his side,

And man shall then forever know all the evil that was done,
To fellow man, to starving child and also to you alone,
The destitute shall then arise, the sickly smile again,
And each shall know your beauty as we stand in judgement of the age'.

(C) 2011 Reprinted with permission


Until They Have Stopped

Art can, and has changed the world. Art is the unrecognized mirror where self and culture is reflected. One book can change a society, one painting end a war, one song start a revolution. Sometimes art reaches out to fondle, sometimes startle, and sometimes to shake awake those asleep. Sometimes it's gritty because to be kind wouldn't serve. Sometimes poets can't afford to be soft with words and the poem can't reach out only to shake hands with a limp and faltering grip. Sometimes poets are precise and stark for the truth they tell must necessarily shatter. This is one of those sometimes. ~B


Until They Have Stopped

Until they have stopped dragging Michael through their dungheap of slanders;
truth metamorphosed into a sewer of slime and piss-haze hanging -
for no other reason than their cold, sour fear
of his decency, generosity, and love
that would have changed the world;

Until they have stopped lynching him
with their nooses of smiles and jokes -

Until they have stopped calling Michael a freak and a woman;
their hateful speculations about his self-image, clothing, weight, and lips –
accusing him of not wanting to be BLACK -
when they wanted to take his passport;
I will not desist from saying, “No.”

Until they have stopped their pornographic insinuations about young boys,
contorting his sincere care for our next generation into
teargas smoke and shit-stained mirrors,
because they couldn’t call him coon, commie, or nigger;

Until they have stopped their gleeful fantasies of hopeless, slurring, nodding, drug-addiction;
and claiming that he wanted the empty, silent death of selfish suicide
instead of his children’s kisses and songs;

Until they have stopped hauling out their sludge of “man-child,” asexual, and faggot,
as if he didn’t have a cock and like savory pussy;
I will not desist from saying, “No.”

I saw his masculinity, smelled it –
hot under the lights that made him glow gold and godlike -
touched it hard in my sticky reveries
of his large hands and intelligent, black eyes ….

Because they are not confused.
They conspire to blindness and mute stupor -
intending to “misunderstand” and spread their disease of malice
to the world he loved – to me.

They like blood-soaked music -
want me stained with its sharp, rancid stink and
slurping his sweat like honey
because I’m a stupid cow.

Here I stand.
I will not desist from fighting them.
I will say, “No.”

Anonymous 3/2011
(with apologies to Sarah E. Wright, and in appreciation of the actor, singer, and humanist,Paul Robeson)

We Are Here

They prepare a sweet feast, and bid us, “Covet.”
They have dressed the table in
snow-soft linen;
each place gilded with
silver flagons, crystal salts and
plates of porcelain, placid blue.
Thin consomme bowls
shine in coppery decadence.

They tease us with the scent of sugar;
trifles of cake and pink-berry cream,
tins of iced caviar, with spoons -
mirages of serene seas.

They have numbered all his bones;
accounted, weighed, and measured
each humiliation, loss, slice, and stab.

His loneliness and despair
chilled, gelled
to delicate aspic.

Dine with us.
Dine on Michael Joseph Jackson.
Dine on beauty, compassion, faith and charity.

They bid us, “Sup.”
Sup on creation;
On the father,
On God’s child;
his genius and talent,
sweat, joy, generosity;
his pride,
his courage, strength
and frailty.
Sup in vampiric delight.

We see the glaring shine of glass,
and glint-sharp knives,
illuminated in gorgeous, changing hues.


Their seductive invitations
and predatory smiles are
salaciously bold and droning.
The droning
burns our bellies,
dries our mouths,
stills our hearts, and
stupefies our souls.

We will not dine
on Michael’s bones.
We cannot touch the marrow spoons:
long and sharp and narrow,
like the fingernails of a

We cannot eat his
sauced with our

Forgive us.

We will not sin,
although the dulcet music
soothes us
dizzies us.
It is the symphony of
his self-completion.

We will not trespass.

We will not feast
on the hostage of siege.
We will not -
no matter how famed the
titillating the lies
the flesh.

We will not sin:
compound our sins
of ignorance,

We will bear him up
our beautiful king, true friend;
and give him succor, safety
over our heads.

We Are Here.

God’s muse,
Vessel of His message
of child-like wisdom, forgiveness, and sincerity,
caretaker of His divine garden,
our earth.
We thank him.

Lift him up, hold his hand,
tell him truths, and
with empathy, share his pain.
We cherish,
and heal.

We accept his failures,
his jealousies,
his anger.
We love him more.

We Are Here.

Here to carry him home
to his three doves;
their lovely eyes
bright beacons -
and kisses
and tears
of happiness.


Was it Always Meant to be This Way?

I wonder if it was always meant to be this way.

That we would only understand that something brilliant, something beautiful, had sat at our table, walked with us to school, danced with us when no-one else would, been there all the time - when it no longer was.

Into the space he occupied, into the vacuum, somehow has flowed all the love we withdrew and all the love we forgot.

All of us carried along on a journey since June 25th, a journey we had no idea we planned on taking.

We were caught unawares, without the the right clothes.

And now we find ourselves asking the questions we didn't ask before, because no-one was asking them.

No-one said what if?

What if that wasn't the way it was?

We thought we knew.

We didn't.

~Deborah Ffrench

~Deborah Ffrench

Sometimes words are all we have.

But sometimes, if we let them, they can carry us on the wings of the emotions they contain - to a place beyond words.

A place where we remember.


Through the beginning,

Through the joy,

Through the splendour,

Through the catastrophes.....

......To the desolation we arrive.

The summer of 2009 will always be remembered as the the winter that took our brightest light, and for those who understand, it has been perhaps the hardest summer of our lives.

And so it should be.

Michael deserves nothing less.

I wish I could have met Michael, felt for myself the force of that fire, seen first-hand the curious grace of that smile. Scorcese described his persona as 'shamanistic', Spielberg recalls 'an emotional star child', Mark Romanek remembers him as 'metaphysical', Anjelica Houston 'a meteor.' Whatever the word used, all of these highly creative individuals were each in their way trying to express the indefinable 'difference' they felt in Michael's prescence.

You can hear it in every note of his songs, in his entire body of work.

And his voice, my God, that voice.

That soft yet tough, delicate yet bullet-bright force of power and beauty he could produce at will. It crept inside you when you heard it, tapped at the fortress of your innermost being, before offering - everything. It elevated the merely kinetic to the kaleidoscopic, music into magic and a thousand songs into the substance of the soul.

Some say Michael should be thought of as nothing more than an 80's artefact, a relic of the bad, brash, Lucas-filmed, pre-Aids, pre-9/11 years when we thought the whole world loved America and people adored their stars like the old movie idols from back in the day.


But what they fail to realize is this: every kid I know is discovering Star Wars for the first time. The Sistine Chapel is no less beautiful now than it was when its painter first stepped down and exhaled.

For true art is immortal and it lives forever.

Michael often quoted Michelangelo - who famously said: 'I will attempt to bind my soul to my work.' This is what Michael Jackson did. He put all that young idealism, that thirst for freedom, that yearning to 'move' and be moved, his desire to be the best, his love and his joy, his rage, his pain and his sorrow, his confusion and his loss; into his work.

And when all the lies and the untruths have faded with time, and those predators who even now pick at his memory like vultures to the bone have finished their feasting -

That work - and that love, will remain.

On June 25th the world knew a unity of sorts. It was as if the whole world, for a moment, felt the slow agony of being that misunderstood, that lonely, and that betrayed. Michael is free now. He sings and dances amongst the worlds. In his leaving, becoming at once a symbol of our lost innocence and the possibilty of regaining that.

And for those of us who know who, and what he was, and what he tried to do here,

Michael Joseph Jackson will shine in our hearts for all time.

I will not wave. I will say no farewells.

The Immortals need no goodbyes.

Who Will Conduct Love's Symphony?

Who is Conducting Love's Symphony Now That Michael is Gone?

On June 25th 2009, the Sun went out
We loved him like Everything
father, son, lover, husband
friend, brother, mentor, inspiration

We loved the way he touched us
more than the Universe
He touched the way he Loved us
and it was too much for words
so he translated it
into song and dance

The vast emptiness
left by his absence is fire
fueled by an ache that never runs out
the only analgesic for this
is Michael's Love

His pulse, his breath
all he did and all he gave
was the Heart of the World
and now, it seems
there is no Love left,
except ours for Him
... but He's gone.

What fills this, what empties it
what takes it away
even the crickets seem to know
that something is different
that something is missing
they don't even sound the same

Who cares now about the children
in Romanian orphanages?

Who cares now about the cries
in the night that no one else
could hear - when no one else
is even listening?

Who remembers now those
the rest of the World forgot
or those the World rejected?

Who holds the World's children
so close in their hearts
and prays for them every day?

Who hears the cries of Earth
as she tries in vain to heal
the damage wrought by humanity?

Who cares more?
Who loves more?
Who loves most?
Who gives everything
the way Michael did?

Who will send us tingling
with the ecstasy of dance
the way no one else could dance?

Who will help us believe
in ourselves, that we could be
everything we dreamed
every time he sang?

He saw God in all of us
and gave pieces of our own Hearts
back to us,
wrapped up as sparkling gifts ...
pieces of ourselves
we'd lost and didn't even know it
Every moment in life with
Michael Jackson was like Christmas

There is no replacing this
I miss those big brown eyes
I miss that magnificent smile
I miss that sparkling laugh
I miss that Heart bigger than the Universe
I miss my father, son, lover, husband
friend, brother, mentor, inspiration
I miss the love notes he sent
I miss the Love he WAS more than anything

On June 25th 2009, the Sun went out
The Heart of the World went missing
and Nothing seems like enough
No one seems like enough
There will never be another One

Who is conducting Love's symphony now
that Michael is gone?

© 2010, Seven Bowie


Cry for Michael


Marjolein, from the Netherlands, wrote to tell me about how, where and when she heard of Michael's passing and how she felt about it. Like so many people, Marjo felt regret at having not been clear about who Michael Jackson was and who he was being in the world.

Since Michael's passing, she has learned how to paint and discovered that her real mission in life is the same as his was... to make the world a better place. She is using her art to do just that.

This piece is dedicated to Michael and his "Cry" on the Invincible album.