In the pattern, she hides,
A woman with many sides.
Strength is her ornament,
And wisdom is her fragrance.
Gaze into the checkered portrait,
With your eyes fixed straight,
You’ll see a woman who battles
Against the tendrils of night,
A woman who vehemently subdues darkness.
She speaks through her silence;
Her eyes are the unspoken guidance,
She urges you to colour your day with hope,
To go beyond the raging sea.
She refuses to be shrouded by the recalcitrant night;
She journeys toward the light.
The pattern cannot tell her story;
It only illustrates her glow.
Salute a woman of courage,
One who won’t be slowed down by age.
When you ask, “How do you know so much about her?”
It’s because I know her beyond the portrait.
September 7, 2025.
I never know my body has rotten
until it appears through the wall mirror
these remains are heaped upon an autan
next spire takes a hearer turn for queerer
now urban commercial cores of gulag
I am a particular schlockier
for signs which are cheap to erect as clague
extensions can be found from that nearer
some convergent, others conflicting stun
I suspect having to do with my craag
this penetrates deeply into a gun
into the family into dague
extreme lengths to which I loosely spun
remain a shadow in place to slither
Waves shape the sound of soaring sea
Ride the tides of what ought to be
Layer on layer out of reach
Breaking breakers bound on our beach
Stirring swirls make clear waters curl
Rolling rumblings leap to unfurl
Watery spritz that twist then sway
As bubbled foam pulls back away
Each wave differing grasping high
Trying to touch the spacious sky
Dreams drenched in schemes form a swell
A place where long lost droplets dwell
While watching waves we hear their call
Musing their constant rise and fall
This seen so many times before
Yet one yearns to see still once more
102 words couplet 16 lines 8/25
Colored Pencil Illustration by G.Gaul
I knew a gent
ramrod straight
meticulously dressed
Shoes laced tight
polished to a ‘t’
Vest, exquisite timepiece
Punctual meant
ten minutes early
Sipped tea, no coffee
Poker face, played whist
dined fastidiously
Folded the ‘financials’ just so
No hint of a lady or passion
when he vanished
His timepiece was found, stopped
i feel them lie their brushes down,
theyre finally done painting my portrait,
years of hard work, finally done
my portrait, a finale -- one of many!
however,
i glance at this portrait,
it looks nothing like me
the face that stares back
is just a mere reflection of me
in fact, its all wrong
this portrait stares back at me
it makes me rather uncomfortable
it makes me feel upset
why do i feel this way?
its just one of many
where people have paved the way
i shouldnt be this upset,
people have been spewing their image of me
for years.
i didnt paint this,
i couldve painted it myself
if i did it would be messy
and unkempt
i shouldnt even attempt it,
so, ill pick up the brushes
and gather the paint
and ill paint my own portrait
of one i want me to be
where i can look how i want,
where i can let my wings grow
this is my portrait.
I gave myself the body
of a secretary bird—
long legs like accusations,
a face too sharp for comfort.
But wings? I borrowed
from a taxidermied dodo:
soft, irrelevant,
stitched to the wrong century.
In the background,
a sky I did not earn.
In the foreground,
a foot poised to crush a snake
that looks suspiciously like me.
The ships gone adrift
On the blue portrait of us
Were just two strangers
No destination in mind
Every port just looks the same
No matter whichever way you are orientated,
It is all the same; true love and physical attraction expressed.
Even if a choice, it is your blank canvas meant to be painted.
When Joe was young he had tonsilitis
In grade school he developed bronchitis
Later, elbow bursitis
And Colitis, Neuritis
Now that Joe’s old ~ he aches with arthritis
Little wonder Joe’s gender-conflicted
It could easily have been predicted
Sick of sports injuries
Joe made some inquiries
Plays dolls injury-free ~ he enlisted
Another year
Another pic
Of you and me.
Weeping for no one, the great
near-sister sobs, "Go, Queen, and find
all the pink jewels." Soon they are
found, examined and named:
Little Pink Fish, Aurora of Evening and
Forest Fire Sky. They are gathered
and brought to the princess. Her
beauty is her face; she is only five.
She often goes from great to ungrateful.
Then, being sorry, she will inquire,
"And will a palace be up and built?"
while wiping tears from eyes of
tanzanite.
I walked the winding way down your memories.
We live in the age of perpetual documentation -
a blessing for the socially inept.
Every abstract gives insight,
but I crave the full portrait,
you in your every shade and hue.
I wish to know you better than breathing,
but I fail even to take notice of where the edges of my posters line up.
And I put them there.
What a shame, what a shame, what a shame.
When will I grow good at being a person?
How could I ever fill in the yawning cracks?
Anhedonia warps my mind and my memories,
but something remembered shines through -
thoughts of those dear to me,
occupying me from dawn to the witching hour.
At last, rays light the gray horizon.
Maybe I’ve a reason after all.
Woman in a painting
When she left it was snowing
she left no snow print
years passed like a stacked wood
waiting for winter
at permanent art exhibition
in a painting by Paula Rego
she was bigger now than before
Etched in her face the abuse she
the abuse she had suffered
She had survived she left footprints
that told of the misery of men
but she wore no hatred in her heart
I could no longer reach her with
sweet whispers
I believed her when she said it is for
men, who abused to feel ashamed
she walked out of her painting
to a future bright
Father is dressed in grim face and a white shirt,
His unfriendly face could win the heart of Hitler –
mother combed her hair this time
and her deep brown eyes carries heavy love for her family.
in the painting i am sitting right in front of the grim face
with my eyes bent as if afraid to look
and my sister is dressed in a baby blue dress,
her hair is weaved and her eyes are so sad, so so sad
as if she has just lost her child through stillbirth.
the artist it seems has paid attention to detail in his work
plates are filled with food and glasses are empty of joy,
but it is the discomfort in our hearts that is missing on this painting
the painting and the artist failed to save us,
failed to reveal fear in our hearts with his brushstrokes –
Unpredictable and volatile--
morose and quiet one moment,
he is laughing heartily just after a while
at whatever excited his mirth,
his high thin loud laugh strange
from a person with a grave mien.
He would often be in deep thought,
as if engaged in contemplation
of a philosophical question.
You’d think he is not given to humor,
but know him well and you will divine
he is not averse to jests even at his expense.
You would view it with some misgiving
he delights in fairy tales, children’s books, toys,
movies with superheroes or fantasy themes,
colors, flowers, and childish games,
but perhaps you would forgive him
for through circumstances not of his own doing
childhood had somehow skipped him.
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