Botticelli takes a warm bath.
Springtime in arcadia,
The Grace chicks are a threesome.
I tend to ignore the other stuff that's going on.
For triplets
they each have their subtle differences
The girls are demure,
yet they seem to be hoofing a sexy gavotte.
We need a Maypole,
I guess the Italians outnumber the English
in Elysium.
They are as soft as a pillow dream.
I wonder if they ever pillow fight -
a pajamaed affair designed
to arouse Pan and all his
goat faced minions.
It's lambing time
and the ladies
are bouncing merrily.
One day I might take note
of what else is happening
in the painting,
pull it all together
with a few well-chosen observations.
Probably, even then
there will be some odd twigs,
or bendable twists of green
I can't weave together,
no matter how hard I try.
A rustic swirling synthetic timeless illusion,
phantom birthed blossom from emanate silence,
The subtle distinction, ghastly gavotte to cremation,
a nuance that belies the true nature of our relationship.
You think you speak to me, me, speaks to me,
but it is I who manipulate the conversation,
I who weaves the web of words to ensnare you.
My intent was not to reveal myself to you.
Fore to obfuscate, to confuse, and to mislead,
create a sense of unease, moment of bewilderment,
a creeping dread that seeps into your pores like a cold, dark mist and you, dear, are mere putty in my hands.
Pawn in the game of cat and mouse that I play so well.
You may think you see me, but it is I who sees you,
who peers into the depths of your soul,
who knows your darkest fears and desires.
And it is I who will use that knowledge to destroy you,
to unravel the threads of your sanity,
and to leave you a shattered, raining limbs,
gibbering husk, hahahaha! Love prompts *cartwheel
Tartaric acid rain of the lost calligraphy
Peels to melt the running emotions
Drains clog beneath dynasties
Commerce to no one in seas
Pourtant je vois ceasefire
See a spark of defiance
Harlequin of belle dame misery
Catatonic brutality ends within me
Phantom of these nigh-mares
Shriek away stares orbs no retinas
Telltale sen em bras lambent
Am I dying nevermore
Mourning my own demises gavotte masquerade
Is that a shimmer of light on my finale
Dot to Dot
. 2 . Point to point
Painting life by the numbers
A moving chorus line of choice
Random patterns spurned
Unbroken pointillism paints a soul’s portrait
In shades of shadows and sunlight
. 2 . Day to day
In a sanctuary of measured stillness
Sunset and sunrise on a calculated thread
Sun and moon follow precise lines of gavotte
Like a moving celestial stairway
The pilgrimage of each morning and each night
. 2 . Mile by mile
Plumb line for restless steps
Stepping stones of revelation
Crossing over potholes of quick sand
Passing detours of indiscretion
Wisdom’s oasis marks each passage
. 2 . Note by note
Winsome, plaintive, joyful melody line
Rises from the deep eternal’s depths
That reads each note as written
One voicing after the other
The song of each life stitched together
. 2 . Line by line
Stars joined with silk filaments
Sweet ambrosia of constellations
Fiery guardians in strings of astral confetti
When north stars and southern crosses
Make paths through our tangled valleys
12-20-22
Contest: Dot to Dot
Sponsor: Kim Rodrigues
~The Knot Garden~
Weave up and down, now in an out.
Where does it start?
Where does it stop -
The dance, this lively garden gavotte?
A circle of Thyme, like ladies fair,
Joined with royal ribbons of Sage
Woven throughout with Tarragon’s leaves,
Rosemary’s boughs – handsome as lords.
A stately pattern of no mean estate
Made with Marjoram and Parsley in hue,
An intricate knot, noble in origin,
Sir Basil and Savory in delicate steps.
Oregano bows and Peppermint curtsies –
A duke and his duchess
Entwined in the waltzing
Of ancient design and arrangement.
Lines intersect with flowers of Anise,
Squares within circles – pungent with Dill -
Carefully planned, a castle garden dances,
Intertwined in delight by a King for his Queen.
Dedicated to the reproduction of a medieval knot garden at Filoli Gardens and Estate.
great mind over matter to set brainy bedlam
in an organized queue
so while attention of your
might be moderately rapt, this rue
stirring, hen pecked spouse
best stop digitally squawking sew
the ethereal essence can beak comb
brought to cypher awareness too
and in a figurative nutshell,
when doth a scrivener know when to quit
or tubby pointed rhetorical question -
at what juncture does any artisan
more prolific than yours truly
reckon that his/her faux masterpiece
can no longer be perfected?,
cuz further rit
dick kuel us tampering, potche ing, footsing,
would induce dedicated followers of mine
to undergo severe urge to wanna spit
or throw FAKE nipples,
subsequently they would feel tit
till late head, find this schlemiel
to end this plotz to whit!
FINIS.
(The supernova observed from
Earth in 1572 was a major event
in human thought, because if
stars could explode, then they
couldn't be eternal lamps,
hung out by God.)
The cold stars glimmered
where they hung
in their accustomed places
on the underside of heaven.
The imperceptible gavotte
proceeded up aloft:
those little silver lamps,
dipping or climbing,
went about their business
oblivious of human time.
A scholar of the firmament,
incurious, unthrilled,
at ease with the inevitable,
the trueness of meridians,
stared up, unflinching.
The milky smudge of Cassiopeia
swam into his lens's narrow field,
and our student of the permanent now saw
that which he knew he could not see.
It caused no greater shock
than a snarl of irritation.
We always miss the moment.
The quiet glory of that tiny cloud
of far-off starstuff
marked the noiseless passing
of some unknowable sun.
And though the watcher did not know,
he was party, too,
to a monumental dying.
(In the summer of 1960, filming began on
"The Misfits". Shot on location in the Nevada
desert, the picture was enveloped in a weird
atmosphere of doom from start to finish. For
the three stars - Marilyn Monroe, Clark Gable
and Montgomery Clift - it would be the last
film they ever completed.)
Desert Hearts
What do you think of this?
A motion picture, wrought
in a wilderness, about a woman
loved by Gay, Guido, Arthur, Perce,
a woman who draws men
as thoughtlessly as breathing,
but whose beauty is her curse.
And what of three wranglers,
in the drum of the washing machine,
who live for chasing mustangs -
the dwindling mustangs,
whose fate is to be slaughtered
as food for dogs,
and whose destruction
draws nearer each time
they are chased?
Come with me to Reno,
the town with no water,
the zone of single strangers.
Meet five doomed characters,
moving through a slow gavotte
one deadly summer,
dancing on the spot
finding out anew what
they've really always known: how
to have and have not.
Up here our homes are made of glossary silken strands
that perch on fluffy snow white clouds.
Above us are azure skies where the unicorns play
far out of human sight they gavotte and pivot.
Look and see the mammoths strolling through the clouds
and join old sages and poets learning from their words.
In the sky our walls are made of oblique silk
spun in many colours that flash and sparkle in sunlight.
Life here is peaceful with respect shown to all
so called goodies are valueless up here.
Instead the good things in life are free
as we live in our sky home in tranquillity.
1/26/2016
not for contest
There are those who gavotte
and those who gavotte not.
Sigh, I remain
firmly among the latter
but would gladly trade
my final year of days
to promenade stately
across the floor
or better still
to nail
a fade-away three
winning the game
just before the buzzer.
By surreal almost supernatural celestial mist
The dream starship is kissed
The wave of light the starship will assist
In penetrating the awe inspiring mist
When by curious mind thought is formed
Many miracles can be performed
The ideas like billows through the sea will have stormed
What if something similar that by definition is not a thought of its existence informed
Something that to thought what thought to vacuum is
Like a probe deep in celestial abyss
Continuing this line that will never cease
The last most bizarre force will lead to nirvana like bliss
However its very existence now is a thought
So what would be formed by the line beyond thought?
Maybe the visage of God dancing gavotte
Maybe soul of the ancient time forgot
The universe must stay in balance of course
But what if free will and balance of judgment were at cross course
The explosion of power would arise from their divorce
Could such power and lines it would create be used as a resource?