On reading Keats’s “Ode on a Grecian Urn,”
and moved by that sweet, dulcet, deathless ode,
my kindled spirit through his fire doth burn,
and yearns to tread his same resplendent road
of Poesy. Though Keats compels through early death,
his measured music wakes eternal powers
of rhyme and awe. O sanctifying Breath!
his words still bloom—a fragrant choir of flowers.
But poets such as he must soon perish
(too soon!). Yet I receive his mantle; may
his genius fill my soul’s most ardent wish,
to forge such odes as bide the Judgment Day.
These lines shall live if Keats my heart inspire,
for his “Grecian Urn” yet burns with deathless fire.
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)
the roaring tides rolled in anger
sat beside me nothing else as I
began to slowly slip into my self
consciousness consoling my inner
most thoughts catering to a rather
chafe metaphor beseeching counsel
embracing righteousness anxiously
covenanting bitterness wildly tamed
emotions creating solitude a vague
rapture mastered my minds eye
withering madness sunk into a sultry
need for wrath in a strange time of day
capturing malice reaching morbidly
for candid cries the seas mist kissed
the shore once more balancing upon
fragile shoulders of vintage broad banks
slashing stone into the rivers edge
entering myself hence soothing the Nile
Written 7-16 -2022 by Mrs Yolanda Joy Nicholsen
Owed to a Grecian Formula,
Though secretive and unbetrayed,
Scarce noticed, by gradations wane:
Auld sylvan strands, fine argent grey.
Rich chestnut hues, slow, unannounced,
Emerge discreet midst ashen roots,
As grizzled mantle transforms brown,
Like autumn leaves or wooded shoots.
And though ’tis pittance sacrificed
To dab small bits at break of day,
Alas, amended means, I yearn:
An aerosol, fine misting spray.
’Tis sweet to subtle reclaim youth,
To push back time, to mount attack.
A caution raised to those who dare:
Embrace thy choosing, glimpse not back.
Draped in gossamer she holds her pose
perfume surrounds simple musk rose
Artist works on colour palette
Striving for tone of light brunette.
Attic is high with wonderful light
Grecian column painted optic white
Spray of green foliage on ancient cobble
Painted with precision brush does not wobble.
Distant cypress against indigo sky
Canvas holds image that will never die
It hangs in gallery forever admired
How marvelous to be truly inspired.
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09/11/2021
I gaze in awe at this beautiful setting;
The Greek isle of Samos I won’t soon be forgetting.
The sun shines bright in the azure blue sky
while white puffy clouds slowly drift by.
The calm Aegean Sea is an aqua blue;
the colorful fishing boats, they number two.
The houses on the hillside with terra-cotta colored roofs;
Off in the distance the clippity-clop of donkeys’ hooves.
The cobblestone sea wall is dotted with white tables
of the sea side cafes with the colorful gables.
The salt air can be felt in the soft summer breeze;
such a beautiful setting puts my mind at ease.
Somewhere in the distance a liner cruises by;
I wonder if the passengers are dreaming as I.
I sit in my living room feeling quite small
as I stare at the painting hanging on the wall.
The image I describe isn’t as it seems;
Alas, my Grecian holiday is merely a dream.
October 2, 2017
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