Distorted by the moment's winners,
the portrait's colors melt to wax.
What do we owe to those beginners;
their final straw was but a tax.
What's ours? Another freedom trampled?
Another life, taken in vain?
When will we follow their example?
Perhaps the portrait will explain.
Your happiness: a sandy beach made up of tiny grains.
Laid plans may lay far out of reach and losses outweigh gains.
The water rushing through your toes washes away the daily woes.
Feet sinking into sand. And then you understand.
Author notes: image from pamelasklar.com
The sword describes an upward arc
and crimson droplets spray the field.
Eyes of the fallen lose their spark.
No mercy given, there's no yield
as swords and maces cut a swath
through the phalanges of the brave.
The God of War is on the path,
no demigod, or king, or slave
can stand against that flaming sword.
Its thirst so palpable, it hums.
Some in an instance, some lay, gored,
their heartbeat echoing the drums.
Soon groans replace the cries of war
and later still, a fertile grass.
A field of poppies marks the score,
reflecting heavenward. Like glass.
Author notes: Image from Pinterest wc 100
Damascus steel. A razor's edge.
Beat into life by sweat and hammer.
No knife to slice a lettuce wedge;
designed to cut through shield and armor,
she sings her dances through the air,
as Saracens defend their prophet.
Knights of the Cross have traveled there,
for Christ, for Glory, and for profit.
Damascus steel flows through her veins
and always ready for a letting.
Bloodied and sated, ancient plains
that history can't bear forgetting.
the march
patrolling ants
discovering a crumb
the bounty must be brought to nest
the feast
The clown returns. A burst of laughter.
A wave of merriment and glee,
from the good seats up to the rafters.
The makeup does its job, and he,
juggles the props. His inner worry
Invisible. His eyes, though, tell the story.
Author notes: image from circleinstitute.org
Excalibur in his right hand
King Arthur rides into the fray.
The Saxons try to make a stand;
the magic sword though, came to slay
whomever stands in the king's path
and one by one, they fall, each shield
no match for the anointed's wrath
their crimson blood soon stains the field.
"Where is he, where!?" King Arthur screams;
as Mordred, misbegotten son,
laughs -- silver bells, cold mountain streams
playing on rocks, till they have gone
into the lake... the lake whose Lady
gave him...crash! a sudden jolt...
The son of that which God forbade,
who leads this consummate revolt,
knocks Arthur from his fabled horse
a spear head sticking from his side,
and history resumes its course.
Where's Arthur now? We still abide...
I struggled: how do I show youth
in all its beauty, splendor, style
how can I come close to the truth
and capture total lack of guile
I've long forgotten what to do
So in the end, I painted you
Author notes: painting by Michael Garmash
What is the echoverse, I asked
Masked man soon gave the answer.
Dancers can dance, beach goers bask
Baskerville dogs, cure cancer
Lancers and jousters play their chess
chess losers play like masters
Rosters in fantasy, god bless
Dress, crass, and alabaster
garden of pure, delight
flowers in colors, so bright
effervescent, full of butterflies
coalescing rainbows in your eyes
gardens of pure, delight
spirit is soaring, takes flight
tulips make room, for bees
come drink my nectar, please, please
relishing their former glory days
now just beauty waiting for your gaze
gardens of pure, delight
spirit is soaring, takes flight
roses are present, too
perfect, to say, I love you!
royalty since ever they were born
careful though, each one does hold a thorn
gardens of pure, delight
spirit is soaring, takes flight
flaxes and sages, bloom
poppies grow scarlet, perfume
splash of color. and you grab her hand
as you're walking through this wonderland
gardens of pure, delight
spirit is soaring, takes flight
fairies with pails, of gold
just as in stories, of old
iridescent, buzzing all about
sunset nascent, visit every sprout
gardens of pure, delight
spirit is soaring, takes flight
Author notes: to the music of The Waltz of Flowers
I never sat quietly, teachers were livid, but I still went on as if that didn't matter
some memories fade, others though, pretty vivid, and others are partial, they break up and scatter
I still talk too much, though the decades keep rolling, adjusted the topics from girl braids to asses
I know some of you will find that quite appalling, but me, I go on, even though I need glasses
Do not get me wrong, I don't whistle at strangers and generally as polite as required
But even though staring will sometimes endanger I still cannot help it, it keeps me inspired
A still shot, water droplets stopped, midair;
sun, incandescent, rainbow on their skins,
and I, when I first see those eyes, and stare,
stop breathing: life ironically begins
when you are yanked from merely being on.
Confronted with an existential pulse:
Her! No one else! No masterpiece yet drawn
can rival her. My want, a flock of gulls.
I hunger, noisy, caution to the wind.
She's looking back -- oh, what a precious crumb!
My dreams are not yet dashed, but they are pinned
on hope, irrational, that she'd succumb.
What miracle life is, how sweet its bite,
to give us lust, and lovers at first sight