she made radishes into roses
her watermelon becomes a basket
she is an Artesian
she cuts her sandwiches into figure eights
her mini cakes show rainbow colors when sliced
her bread loaves are shaped like animals
eating her food is an adventure
always a surprise or two
she puts peanut butter in pancakes
It should be more than a Jeopardy* answer,
that glass-half-full should shimmer
as if joy can be captured in a simple act of water.
She drinks artesian from a crystal carafe,
pours it carefully into the crystal goblet
spilling not a single drop of the life-giver.
Toasting the sun was their morning ritual,
the light casting sparkles and rainbow colors,
You are my rainbow he said that last morning…
His crystal goblet now empty forever.
*Television gameshow, category “Full” House
Pharaoh Akhenaten liked his potbelly to show
He told the artists to draw him Rubenesque without woe
An Egyptian monarch with confidence back in the day
So, the skilled artesian painted Akhenaten exactly that way.
the found map led me to an
asymmetrical doorway, created by an artesian
I wondered at the builder as I approached
the boards were placed diagonally
skillset many carpenters have not mastered
I knew now I was dealing with a professional
the knocker was a bit off-kilter, which amused me.
the brickwork looked a bit random also.
who created this wall? This door?
the paint was not fresh, there were bits of ivy.
A quaint shabby chic look.
I could not wait to meet the occupant.
an artesian altar stocks
moist manna seized in vast rounds
twice arrested sights cascade
moment instills
reawakening
a sheltered reckoning breathes
no regrets prepped ascensions
~a ponder
Older lady with face of a ninety-year old
Wore a bejeweled spider on her lapel
It was striking, many commented
Others seemed to not notice
How you could not notice, I do not know
She was a tiny woman, weighing seventy pounds
Two of it was from the spider brooch
It was her inheritance someone whispered.
I was not sure what they meant.
Her only inheritance?
Her favorite inheritance?
From her parents or from a man?
I did not know her well enough to ask.
But I stared at it for a long time.
This spider was an undisputed beauty.
An artesian had done well.
It was the dresser few could have visualized
I spotted it in the flea market as fantasized
Patterns most would have been able to think up or paint
Created by an artesian whose designs are never faint
This dresser had a signature, not any kind of surprise
So marvelously orchestrated it nearly hurt my eyes
It was a gorgeous dresser, which would look great by my bed.
I only paint one of a kind things, the artist apologetically said.
Autumn Falling
David J Walker
It was the Chambermaid
Who smoothed the sheets
And swept the floors
Of the summerhouse
And checked the windows and
Locked the doors
For another season
A warmer blouse
As Autumn entered
With purpose and reason
Colors morphing
The artesian song
Singing of
The freezing
Rains to come
As light gives way
To the longer
Colder day
Falling into the Night
Desert drought left this sinner dry.
The cloudless sky would not say why.
Frugal cactus shared water free.
God has been merciful to me.
I will not mourn the lack of rain
Joy in God’s sky is my refrain.
By me a sleeping snake I see,
God has been merciful to me.
Fear is gone as I gaze above
Knowing in drought my Father’s love.
Shade clouds offer hope instantly.
God has been merciful to me.
Stumbling along, my ears do ring,
Yet flowing words my mouth does sing.
When an artesian spring I see:
God has been merciful to me.
Most beautiful creature I had ever seen
More gorgeous than ebony pumas or wild wolves
I was fascinated, and intimidated; she was the Sheila.
There was danger in knowing her.
She was the ultimate circus star; a performer.
An artesian, her traveling RV was full of hand painted beauty.
The Sheila would have travelled easily in a gypsy wagon,
except the circus manager would not tolerate it.
I think they used to be married.
She was Bohemian, confident, a woman of truth.
Her beauty astounded and confounded us.
The Sheila could do every job in the circus, and she did.
She tamed the lions and sometimes swung from a trapeze.
She was stunning; mysterious and beautiful.
It was more than enough to wow me.
Dreams of the Shaman
David J Walker
It was the Prairie version of Eden
In the evening light
Awaiting the day exposing the
Cover of Buffalo Grass
Its flag-like banners of male flower
Flying in the morning dew
Guarding the female blooms
Hidden amongst the leaves
Rounded and burr-like but not spiny
The fauna is dense but unseen
Prairie Dogs bark out warnings to the
Burrowing Owls competing with foxes
hunting field mice
Cougars patrol the canyons for
Passing Elk following the water
Wolves stalk Bison
Claiming the lame,
the young, and the old
Tens of thousands of Sunrise pass
Before Adam arrives with his Eve
Abiding in the canyons of Artesian Springs
Living in harmony off the land
Awaiting the changes in the
Dreams of the shaman
Amaury Guichon never does anything common, small, ordinary or usual.
A creative artesian who thoroughly thinks designs through before he begins.
His craft is chocolatier, and his inventions are phenomenal.
Whimsical, wonderful, wild masterpieces others do not visualize or imagine.
He conjures up elixirs and creations others do not see in their dream states.
A harp? Sure. Rabbit sitting on a stove?
Why not? Pirate ship being devoured by sea monster.
That sounds like a fantastic challenge!
Birdcage? I can have one finished in two hours.
Fiddler cat, barnacle, dragon, pagoda, peacock, butterfly, clock.
I don’t see why not.
Amaury Guichon’s chocolate confections are edible,
but after you receive one who could eat it?
They are works of art of the highest caliber.
Hey! Stop that!
Grandchildren do not understand.
LEAVE THAT ALONE!
DROUGHT
young lamb at watering hole,
partaking of bubbling brook
from down below of artesian bore,
like many lambs here and now,
all hesitant at first,
and only taking what is offered,
in order to sustain their thirst
and to feed an empty belly,
for in this dry parched land,
‘tis a land of seemingly endless drought
where many days without rains,
many days a lacking grass,
many days of gathering dust,
many days of never-ending heat,
and many days of thirsting throats,
and bellies catered on no amount of feed,
and where many have gone to die on their feet,
now with the help of grazier, family, friends
and old Blue the dog,
herded together as a mob,
and in from the long paddocks of no more,
and with the banks at their throats
but now with help from afar;
and hay and feed from donated trucks
all the way from Corio Bay,
just maybe, just maybe,
there is a God who has heard the message,
and their pleas for fair dinkums,
and the prayers of night and days,
and from what lambs they can muster at the hole,
for when the rains on the morrow come,
there is now a hope of a new beginning,
and a revival on its way.
Francis Cooper – Mac © August 2019
Alone upon the bench he perched, blue eyes locked in hollow stare,
Like almonds long since plunged to earth, with little flourish or fanfare.
A look of depth—an Artesian well, into which one could fall for days,
Storied eyes of labors, and battles won, and fatherhood to those he’d raised.
Our eyes became fixed across the way, the distance abridged by our pierce,
For a second I saw deep into this man, as he tugged on a smoke something fierce.
Now calm overtook as our eyes parted ways, in a flash the connection was gone,
Yet my interest remained in this man with blue eyes, that told tales to which I was drawn.
Approaching I asked if he’d mind if I snapped, a photo or two in repose,
Smirking, his eyes took a skyward glance, suggesting dismay juxtaposed.
Back in my studio excited I sketched, this face that was grizzled and wise,
Watercolor splashes brought him to life, through the character of his captivating blue eyes.
For Valentina, she was just another person in a nameless town.
In ennui of the busy streets? of the city of San Francisco, in the midst of all the festivities,
She suddenly stopped, forgotten by the world she once knew.
As the rainfalls cascades on her accoutred fur coat, the boudior filled with women was invisible to her.
?Her neck tie is now out of place, no longer in any fashion sense.
As she parades the narrow foggy alley without regard, the wincing of the bystanders behind her seemed unnoticable.
Now standing beside the roadside in reminiscent of what her outcome could've been.
Her disconsolate face says it all, Tapachula, a place she has left her heart.
The euphony of the Fandango, the ineffable jovial laughter of the ancianas, the merengues dance and the stomp beat; all calling her name.
But of all things was the church with bells and the Artesian wells?,
The cozy mountains, the halcyon pathways where she strolls in barefoot. But mostly at the bakery shop, is the shy and handsome Alejandro who, with the warmest smile, never forget to hand her a bag of fresh rolls with a note "te amo".
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