Amid silence filled
with tranquil fervor,
the Weeper stands
blotting the earth
green and yellow keen
against the echoes
of artillery and
dead men
damned to the
muddy wounds of war
and if my heart is flawed ~
a muse-less manipulator,
it is because
it has known the murk
where nymphaea drift
through green grief
of algae blooms,
yet still m e l t s
in mauve muteness
to feel love’s rhythm
in merciful melancholy,
whilst the air
ripples like fractured light
on a liquid edge
dreaming,
drawing
somewhere
between silence and sacredness,
as mind mimics migrating birds
blissfully bruised
but never broken...
for I am the essence
of an aquatic-blossom ~
soft yet strong ~
patience my pulse
kindness my dignified design,
when coldness finds
its cruel coherence...
O beloved,
feel me
beyond the sighing pond-mists.
I am your mirror
in shallow reflections,
interpreting your
quivering quietness
into unbreakable
laces of light
that float and breathe
as mindfulness
frames the placid pixels
in oil pigments ~
an aura of an artist
can refine to redefine,
where lilies linger
and the water reminisces
its own sun's
luminous f l o w ...
French artist Claude Monet
painted scenes from life occurring day to day.
Peace he found from his large garden pond
where paintings of 250 water lilies he spawned.
I am devastated, dumbfounded, dismayed,
These people are so stupid, or crazy,
They threw some hot soup
On a painting by Claude Monet,
These people are ridiculous, wicked,
Who will listen to them? Not me,
How can you believe what they say?
They destroy immortal works,
These people are so stupid, or crazy,
No one will defend their cause,
They’re like child killers
Who come to talk to us about God.
Je suis catastrophé, médusé, atterré,
Ces gens sont si idiots, ou fous,
Ils ont jeté de la soupe chaude
Sur une toile de Claude Monet,
Ces gens sont ridicules, méchants,
Qui voudra les écouter ? Pas moi,
Comment croire ce qu’ils disent ?
Ils saccagent des œuvres immortelles,
Ces gens sont si idiots, ou fous,
Personne ne défendra leur cause,
Ils sont comme des tueurs d’enfant
Qui viennent nous parler de Dieu.
impression melts before our eyes-
into a blurred memory
Claude Monet
all those lilies that got in his way
traversing those pads
it's now understood was just one of his fads.
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