( in loving memory of JPR)
Nowhere to go, is this a bonus feed
Maybe a curse, although it’s too grandstanding
Born into nothing, I’ve got nowhere to proceed
As if I fly too high to care about the landing
In fact, it was much simpler in reality
Dystopian curators were too lazy
And too corrupted to maintain the trad brutality
Corruption is godsent when rules are crazy
So I felt free and acted loosely, dear friend
But times again were changing their course
Much faster, but I got them in the end
No wisdom’s wiser than that smile of yours..
Categories:
curators, in memoriam, passion, smile,
Form: Rhyme
They found me lying in the sand one day;
as over time, waves carried me to shore.
My fate made plans that I'd forever stay-
for I, her brooch, My Lady did adore.
Her face appears in Ivory, framed by
an oval filigree of shining gold.
I now lay in a velvet box and sigh-
curators know my value- yet, not told
the memories stored in my Ivory-
her lifetime secrets they will never know;
as part of her, I hold the reverie
in this antique that cannot tell or show.
Her profile, carved in Ivory just smiles;
as I stay silent on her joys and trials.
Categories:
curators, appreciation, fate, symbolism, tribute,
Form: Personification
If all you need to ask, "Is beauty truth?"
It isn't much you need to know on earth.
It's less than what appraisers say it's worth,
This jar with frieze depicting frozen youth.
Curators and collectors both agree
If forged or stolen, sold dishonestly
Museum art debased on pedestals
Makes hiding art seem safely tenable.
It may be better beauty be destroyed.
A little worshiper of idols still
Resides inside and ever, always will
Until we're much less worldly employed.
While thirsty an ascetic often thinks
Urns beautiful when everybody drinks.
(8/29/22)
Categories:
curators, beauty,
Form: Sonnet
Early morning blue sunny skies askew
turn to white grays on piggyback
once light breezes that blew
gentle in and out the trees comeback
now race wildly out to the sea renewed.
The colors with their brilliant reflective glow
edge toward a harvest moon and celestial equator
rising, falling, lilting in discretionary phase flow
wavering, clinging to the shortening day curators
lingering on equality of night day summer-winter throws.
An ecliptic sun moving in south-easterly directions
marking time and space and revolution years
inching hurriedly a pause for momentary corrections
not holding back or hesitating regardless of joy or tears
on a chartered course through seasonal deflections.
Returning to the calendar of September days
swiftly moving from month to year and decades
throughout wonderment and marvelings of man at play
history repeated forever on parade
the autumnal equinox marks the years and the days.
Categories:
curators, autumn, sun,
Form: Quintain (Sicilian)
I see a green tree. It is all I want.
A dry rocky mountain and a hawk
satisfy. To die spiritually in
the hot sun and the body go on
climbing. To take the paths among
the rocks and mahogany bush.
To feed on rock lichen and blue
sky. To not need a house.
To leave my mind in the foothills.
To climb everything but blind. In
the deer shade of the cool aspens.
Forgotten by the work force and the shrew.
Bored as a badger disturbed at
its stream. Free singing as the stream
cutting the gorge. Cool as a hummingbird
in its wet spray. Caterpillar fur.
I stay in the mountains unknown.
The roof soot of the city calls me back.
The museum women shaking their bodies
at the stuffed tigers. The meditating
curators and entrepreneurs. Burro.
* * *
Old Basho, early Spring, took fond leave of his friends,
closed his small house at edge of village,
and with one peasant companion climbed the long narrow road to
the North.
Blessed morning!
the day I left life behind
but not this world of dew.
Categories:
curators, bird, blue, green, mountains,
Form: Verse
WHAT WOULD IT MEAN
IF ONE TRAINED A GROUP OF MONKEYS
TO PULL A LEVER AND
THEY VOTED YOU
GREATEST ARTIST EVER
WHAT WOULD IT MEAN
IF ONE TRAINED A GROUP OF MONKEYS
TO COLLECT ART AND
THEY BOUGHT YOUR ART AND
MADE YOU RICH
WHAT WOULD IT MEAN
IF ONE TRAINED A GROUP OF MONKEYS
AND MADE THEM CURATORS AND HEADS
OF MUSEUMS AND GALLERIAS AND
THEY DISPLAYED YOUR ART AND
MADE YOU FAMOUS
WOULD YOU BE HAPPY
EVEN IF BANANA ART BECOME GREAT ART
OR WOULD YOU AND THE MONKEYS
SEEK OUT
THE LATEST
JUNGLE CONTEMPORARY
Categories:
curators, art, art, art,
Form: Blank verse
Life is not an alibi, it wasn’t built for practicality
You cheer the crowd and succumb to formality
A tragic event will not stop the planet turning
In me is the spirit inexorable, avid - burning
Marching curators performing mandatory tests
The sheath plunging you deep inside the crust.
Will the world supply me with a new identity?
When the choices rise to countless infinity
People watch over see want they desire to see,
They wonder what I may turn out to be,
A flamboyant umbrella or a borrowed ladder
The missing profile, afraid to cross the border
Yesterdays shimmering light blinding your eyes
Friendly faces moving ahead bidding goodbye
Life is an occasion, but how far is the shore?
The rhythm of existence is an engulfing lore
Shaking of the nausea is a common mission
Will it regenerate to capsize my vibrant vision?
Survivors are far too many; aspire to be a savior,
You rise to it - the one dreamt of being a redeemer!
Categories:
curators, faith, forgiveness, parody, me,
Form: Didactic