Club nocturnal
In Bilbao, on a warm evening, he walked past a nightclub
walked in and had a beer; he could have gone to
a Guggenheim Museum and be culturally minded, absorb
and mention it later in a passing conversation, “the other
day at the Guggenheim.”
At the club, a group of people sat drinking affluent bubbly
wine, thinking it was champagne, the group laughed a lot
and apparently had a fine time, although, he thought they
were a bit frenzied about the fun
The people around the table didn’t look prosperous and
the women looked like office tarts, with too much lipstick and
mascara, flashing eyes and giggles.
He knew (had been there) that the one footing the bill
would feel dreadful in the morning, sensing the futility
an ice cap on sagging shoulders of hopelessness.
No, it was not the drinking, real drinkers do not frequent
nightclubs, but drinking at modest places, was about feeling swanky
a man about town.
He paid for his beer and complained about the price
the waiter pointed to a pricelist hanging high on a wall, so there!
Along the boulevard, he bought newspapers went to a café,
had some wine and spent hours enjoying himself.
Henry Haven Windsor has published his magazine for ten years
This photo of his family was taken two months after the Atlantic sank
Wife is voting for Roosevelt in the upcoming election, his biggest fears.
He is stumping for Wilson, who he thinks is a lot like his cousin Frank.
The children are picture perfect, yet aware of the tension, of course.
They borrowed the neighbor’s dog for the photos, glad it was not horse.
Daughter Emily has joined the young new Progressive Party in town.
She does not share this with her father, who would probably frown.
Mother is reading a book about Guggenheim who died on the Titanic.
It makes her feel uncomfortable about their ocean vacation, a little frantic.
Henry is smiling for the photo, but his mind is planning his next lay out.
He has published Popular Mechanics for ten years, his family shouts.
am i
right
that the
writing rite
for those of who
have partaken in it
more
than
once
have
their
own way
even safe to
say a particular
personal but not always
necessarily
initiationally
immatating
that same
something
that caused an
equal but opposite
reaction the first time a
synapse sparked pleasurably
then a minute
but in no time
now minutely
needing
nothing
even simple
things like using
the same pen again
or blowing a ram's horn
in truth
if truth
be told
you blame
your muse
but i never have
to for through today's
technology an email will do
if she says she's
feeling lazy then
i with poem paint
will drip in
a thought
of time clocks
melting over some
tree limbs and then finish
by hanging this on a tired wall
where it will
be for me to
find perhaps
looking from a
bove at what is
in the upper west side of
Manhattan's Guggenheim but
hardly being a labyrinth since it is
circular yet was designed by Lloyd Wright
Art, is worlds of splendor,
Calliopes of sight and sound,
That stimulate our senses,
Expressing life profound.
Art, is visual texture,
Space, shapes, and colored lines,
Its tones and measured values,
Of every imaginable kind.
Art, is Michelangelo,
And his Creation at Sistine,
Kandinsky at the Guggenheim,
Pablo Picasso at fifteen.
Art, is melodic singing,
An opera at the Met,
Or orchestrated performance,
Of audible storytelling silhouettes.
Art, is Sarah Brightman,
With Bocelli accompanied,
The New York Philharmonic,
Woodwind, brass, and tenor strings.
Art, is famous people and places,
Resonating with artistic flair,
Paris, Rome, Broadway, London,
Ginger Rogers, and Fred Astaire.
Art, is how history captures,
A nation’s cultural appeal,
Toward things its people value most,
Their morals, ethics, and ideals.
There once was a young chap from Guggenheim
Just loved summertime rhyme and pantomime
Hat out for nickels and dimes
Exchanged for just a few rhymes
Attracting crowds on through till closing time
AP: 1st place 2021
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