Subimal Sinha-Roy Poet Tail-rhyme

The Artist

Self-styled you yell from the lofty roof top,
nobody lends ears but you don’t ever stop.
You pronounce you’ll make a great name
as an artist, in loud voice you do proclaim
so that everybody can hear.

You assert there are multi-colors in your eye,
we all know it's nothing but a pure white lie.
You think you’re born with gene of an artist,
restrained laughter spurts, people can’t resist,
but it doesn’t reach your ear.

You construe your brush has a Monet touch,
your trees stand as clusters of plumb crutch,	
something like water in river is cobalt opaque. 
You can’t even make the semblance of a fake
with the paints you smear.

You gloat you got the modern Picasso flair, 
crude art shapes distort the pallid paint layer, 
formless faces are entangled in web of cubes
as a bizarre pile of squeezed out color tubes,
you collected over the years.

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April 15, 2022
Contest : Tall Tales 2
Sponsored by : Jeff Kyser

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