Best Linseed Poems

Rescued from the side of the road on a cold and rainy day
Thrown out like a piece of trash...a worn out throwaway
So I pick you up and cover you up and bring you home with me
And wonder why they can not see... the beauty that...

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My head rests on the doorframe, as I'm watching him at work.
I'm jealous of the devotion, and the motion of his hands,
much surprised at the green-eyed dragon that lurks within my mind, 
while he rubs the pungent oil into muscles of the pine.

With rolled up...

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What the mind creates 
Is real; the physical is
The illusion. Art born of
Passion like a finger that
Touches a wasps nest, 
Be still and no harm will
Come . Storm clouds
Gather; I smell the linseed
On the canvas. Mind that 
Guides the hand that 
Guides the pigment that...

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Finally, she could get down on her knees again, not in prayer but to touch rosemary and lavender which had begun to send its fragrance into the spring and rising warmth in nature’s heart. There was no sense of regret that winter passed with revolving...

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Artists are not so different,
at times glossing over truth,
hiding beneath a sheen -- 
some extra linseed goes
a long way...

What is this cry for realism?!

Picasso sought deeper meaning
via grotesque breasts~ elongated
elephant snout limbs -- perhaps believing that 
the human tale needed elevation, himself
turned off by surface...

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Without a word - you speak to me through particles of pigmentation
For centuries held within the grip of linseed oil
Where now I gaze upon  the many faces that you wore
And their beauty shakes  me to the very core
For in each one I see...

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While watching the expansions of cities I felt too sad one day. In order to create more roofs and houses,  Green fields were slaughtered to meet the passions of the builders and our politicians. 

The places where there used to swing in air, ...

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My father's Roger Maris mitt
Was kept in perfect health.
It showed no wrinkles no blemishes
Nor flakes of skin.

Its limber fingers were sheathed in leather, 
Its pocket was well stretched
As it yawned with each breath.
Bathed in linseed oil, 
It was a dark jersey cow
As it slept like...

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tracing the edges of her hourglass 
curve, he imagines her eyes’ shadows
on oil and linseed…
wanting to be filled with neutral hues’ lines
as brushes smell of linoleum sky.

inside her navel is a garden and a river
waiting to be peeled, etched by strokes
washed in brown and grey...

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IF EVER I HAD A COUNTRY - LXXI

		LXXI	

IF ever I had a country targeted by no refugee
And if ever I were appointed by the Inter-Planetary Committee KING of this territory by Inter-Galactic Royal Decree
I'd build wide-gauge rail-roads cushy chopper-pads air-strips twice the size of Kennedy-cum-...

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The prism had reflected a crumbling schism of broken glass for far too long

A mosaic with sharp spikes and edges imprinted on a breaking point of shards

Copious cornucopia scattered over a trapdoor of lost fragments in disarray 


Is the whole more than the sum of...

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Rain Is For Others 

The village green 
And its linen fellows

Bask in summer's
Dappled yellows, 

Bowling leather 
Onto linseed willows

Beneath the fluffy 
Cotton pillows. 

Children playing
Shooting peas, 

Stinging faces 
And grazing knees, 

Gran and grandad 
Sip their teas

On chequered blankets
Under trees. 

Upon a sudden 
Skies grow...

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Pickled like gherkins in vinegar

Crystallised forever in sugar

Set and translucently Jellied ...

Hung like smoked, salted meat

Pigments crushed from earth
brushes from fine animal hair

Is it because they freeze
the sitter's image which

survived as the best image 
of the sitter for millineums?

Linseed oil Egg tempera hand
mixed by devoted...

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fettered frightened multitude at our backyard, 
wailing in sombre sigh, waiting for beckett's “godots” 
multitude with talents begs their oppressor to survive, 
dying amidst plenty with multitudinous buried unfinished destinies, 
stunted by great grand fathers who by hex and vex held million in thralldom 
The...

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When I was twelve my grandma told me I was a woman – 
and in six or eight years I would be a wife.
She said Sundays would be pasta days, Fridays I’d cook fish –
and to keep a net of mothballs in my closets.
She told...

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