broad brushstrokes crush the canvas, discovering beneath
goddess' face, Minerva's, bright lipstick hides her teeth
her likeness draws us inward, her wisdom is the book
hope I recall the safe word, if she decides to look
Author notes: art by G.M.
the pot of gold
at the end of the rainbow
dissolves in smoke
eternal flame, it marks a grave
entombed in chiseled granite
the fallen, now forever brave
their widows fall upon it
no names, too many to admit
hope somebody remembers
yet somehow, all of them did fit
now marked by glowing embers
the double helix
opens up like a zipper
for procreation
Can you imagine -- him -- whose perfect verse
has filled our language, phrase by quoted phrase;
was he disposing of some unknown curse?
One hundred fifty four: each will amaze
and humble you with effortless refrain.
His words jump off the page and spring has sprung...
was there a point to two, or three, what gain
was there in sonnet after sonnet sung?
Mere mortals cannot hope to equal these,
yet we continue, laughable at best.
Exuberant when words appear at ease,
and stanzas rest where they're supposed to rest.
What use comparing him to summer day?
We wallow in our discontent and pray.
every hour on the hour
my spell gains a little power
till at last when midnight strikes
I add up all of my likes
Author notes: Wc 24
no one as thirsty
as a plant leaning towards
a glass of water
Pale moonlight oozes from the lacquered grand
as birdlike fingers stroke the checkered keys.
Time seemingly forgets its second hand,
a drop of golden amber set to freeze.
C-Minor echoes through the concert hall,
draped in a velvet burgundy on oak.
The chandelier's on dim as shadows shawl
the audience in leisurely baroque.
The tempo's picking up, a stately dance.
Wrists up and down, a peacock’s mannered gait,
and then, excited, clasping at their chance,
they race across the keyboard to their fate.
Could but a poem match that final note,
the poet, could say, quitting: "all she wrote".
the architect of fertile valleys
and rugged mountains raised sky high
confronts me with a forest alley
a landscape gentle on the eye
snow glories paint its shallow fences
and spill onto its sloping walls
the architect spared no expenses
to canopy its vaulted halls
could you imagine lovers, strolling
their essence permeates the air
the painter, all the more extolling
the architect -- for they're not there
Author notes: 4. Grieg's Peace of the Woods painting by Donald Ayres, a British Postwar & Contemporary painter.
It's medium, I said, the steak
as to the soup, had I to make
something with this distinct perfume...
I said the steak, it's medium
please let me taste these skinny buns
it sounds like they will be the ones
that I can eat, if in due haste
these skinny buns, please let me taste
The same result, that's not a shock
your menu, what a piece of crock
the cook and waiters will revolt
That's not a shock, the same result
the drizzle will soon turn into a downpour
the crippled boy is likely jealous of
sits in his wheelchair, gazing at its grandeur
the velvet sky is what he's dreaming of
But can it be, even the rain is lacking
and he's not jealous, but in pain, and scared?
The author's lying, or is merely slacking
drunk on his words, his poem will be aired.
Quick, turn aside, and the obliging cover
will shield you from the unexpected rain
and you think: "is the boy there", and discover
that he thinks about you, and of his pain
Author notes: Вот дождь идёт и вскоре станет ливнем, наверняка завидует ему Безногий мальчик в кресле инвалидном, в небесную глядящий бахрому. А может быть, ему и ливня мало, нет зависти, а только боль и страх? И автор врёт, как это с ним бывало под рюмочку в лирических стихах. Вот отвернёшься, и речной вокзальчик тебя укроет от иной воды И думаешь: а всё же, был ли мальчик? А мальчик думает: а всё же, был ли ты?
A downpour themed verse -- water drenched:
by consonants dripping with vowels,
would rather my work was entrenched
and labors as needed with towels.
When stresses and accents await
demanding the din of tin roofing
and charred inspiration cuts bait
burnt meat, fur still on, serves as proofing
dig in, swim, or fly up above
embracing this guttural current
this poem about you, but love
for somebody else, whom you aren't
Author notes: Стихи о дожде - из воды: по капле согласных и гласных, согласных на то, чтоб труды мои не пропали напрасно. Когда ударения ждут и требуют кровельной жести, когда вдохновение жгут и лепят из мяса и шерсти. Взлетай, зарывайся, плыви, и слушай гортанную реку, стихи о тебе - из любви к другому совсем человеку.