A blissful, calm day echoes.
A warmth of a kiss it yields.
Atop trees and fertile fields
As far as the sky meets.
Favor grin honor its joyfulness
Of that felt by summer’s rays
On nature’s medium maze
Of color spray in sway, in gay play.
Keep, long moment narrative open
To the comfort landscape painting.
The finished airbrushed scene, reigning
By the hands and heart of the sun.
Pinwheel quivers rapidly, savoring time.
A breath airborne towards space
Across limbs with misplaced grace,
Expressing seconds of melodious chime.
To Know Without Knowing
Red moss, crimson as the blood of a slaughtered calf,
I knew I had seen it before but could not recall
where or when. To see a landscape painting, knowing
I had been there before
In the Valley of Cobblers, children ran barefoot on
summer grass and scented wildflowers
unpasteurized milk, and healthy, innocent laughter.
I know this to be true, but I don’t know why.
I think of reindeer; will they eat red moss used
as they are to the grey variety? The sun keeps shining
like Spanish blood orange with a wicked cold.
The good earth is dry and waits for rain
The Red Moss is a forgotten love story. Perhaps
if I sit still long enough and wait
I will remember it.
afternoon stroll
I walked into a landscape painting made of chlorophyll
in eleven variations, and there were no adolescent girls
around suffering from sclerosis, but did see a pale face
in a car driving by, cattle string incomprehensively at
the painting
the heaven was pale blue with hasty brush strokes
of fondly white painted looking like the top crest of
waves gone astray, petrified by loneliness
Rocks too, were green as decaying teeth and sheep
shorn looking ridicules and ashen among verdant
olive trees
As the sun was about to hibernate and night cast
shadows on the silent stage, colors evaporated
I thought of Saddam Hussein, already forgotten
had a daughter who loved him, saw him as tragic
a figure fighting the occupiers
This teaches us one needs not to be saint to be
loved
Through the smoke filled air
sunlight snared me a glimpse
of the expansive landscape painting.
It spoke to me convincingly about its inherent worth
matching the picture window view
stroke for stroke
shadow for shadow
sparkle glimmer
and the dark murky horizon.
You could walk into either
as if into ether
and wander
seeking the truth upon which each scene is built.
To know and not know.
Red moss, crimson blood of a slaughtered calf
I knew seen it before but could not recall
where and when.
Like seeing a landscape painting in a valley
of cobblers where children ran barefoot on
summer grass and scents of wildflowers.
Unpasteurized milk had laughter in the breeze
I know this to be true but do not know why.
I think of raindeers, will they eat red moss
used as they are of the grey variety?
The sun keeps shining like a Spanish orange
so full of juice ready to burst.
The good earth is dry waits for rain, plenty
the red moss is forgotten as a love affair
if I sit still enough, perhaps I will remember
footprints carved on a crystalline carpet
the winding traces of morning skaters
on teal and ivory rugged snowfield
lead me to his quiet hometown
the bare trees that surround me
are like dancing old willows by the brooks
freezing as they witness the old folks
faded in the misty blue
the silver charm of the clouds above me
enchant me like the way you thrill me
when you look at me
without a word or two
1 March 2022
A Brian Strand Visual Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Briand Strand
1st place
Notes: Snow at Argenteuil is an oil-on-canvas landscape painting from the Impressionist artist Claude Monet. It is the largest of no fewer than eighteen works Monet painted of his home commune of Argenteuil while it was under a blanket of snow during the winter of 1874–1875. (Info and phot credits to Wikipedia).
A lonesome magpie~
perching on a forlorn wooden stairs
on a snowcapped mountain side
spells serenity in the day light.
The barn house reflects
the pale lavender shadows~
a soft blend of chiaroscuro;
The thickened snow in impasto
reminds me of winter daydreams
of my love so far away.
The hanging frosty pearls
on dancing dainty twigs~
sparkling like chandeliers
in ancient sanctuaries;
Like the diamonds I keep
as a symbol of his promise
that one day soon~
he will come back to me.
3 February 2021
Notes: The Magpie (French: La Pie) is an oil-on-canvas landscape painting by the French Impressionist Claude Monet, created during the winter of 1868–1869 near the commune of Étretat in Normand.
(Photo and info credits to Wikipedia)
Every time
My eyes fall
Upon the painting
On my wall
Its country track
Reaches out
To the floor
Wanting
Calling
My feet to befall
To kick up the dust
As it guides me thus
To the ancient gum tree
Up the track
Past the old burnt fence
The dry creek
Meanders hence
I imagine
I’d sit
In the murmuring grass
And write a poem
About my furthering
Passed
( Heinz Krhuser 1925, SA Landscape, oil }
My Landscape Painting
Let me describe my painting,
Of a pastel colour landscape,
A Beautiful British Waterway,
Forming our scene and shape.
Walking by the water’s edge,
Following the towpath trail,
Pace of life serene and slow,
Barges powered, ready to sail.
There’s something about Canals,
Contented people with a smile,
A Detachment from Urban life,
If not for long, then for a while.
Gently the water meanders,
Through Country, Town and Vale,
River flowing alongside,
Cutting through hills and Dale.
The sounds of hope and nature,
Heron Kingfisher, Birdsong,
Squirrels playful, scurry and chase,
While Robin is bob, bobbing along.
Midges skim the surface,
Fish blowing bubbles in jest,
The Angler pitting his skills,
A contest to see who is best.
Waterways once built for Cargo,
From an old industrial past,
Now they carry for pleasure,
Memories to grow and last.
Would you like to buy my painting?
Of a pastel colour landscape.
It’s signed with love by the artist,
Portraying, the scene and the shape.
Rubbed out
I stopped at a low stonewall
on my slow progress
saw before me a landscape painting,
ten sheep and twelve lambs.
I thought who that painter might be,
a sudden blur in the air,
when the picture cleared there
was a mare and her foal
five sheep had disappeared;
the painting looked better,
but I didn’t linger,
I wouldn’t like the artist to
think I was a part of his picture
wanting to erase me
for the sake of the prettiness.
of the landscape
The Great Escape
When the police arrested a pair
of robbers, a mad cow came scampering,
chaos the robbers legged it.
One was quickly caught,
the other ran into a zoo;
where the police shot an elephant
and wounded a giraffe,
(being big when bullets fly is a drawback).
The bad guy was trapped
when he fled into an art gallery.
collided with a landscape painting,
destined for the local jail’s reading room
depicting a forest.
The painting parted,
as the red sea;
inside he hastily sprinted to
the nearby woods,
whence he couldn’t escape;
and had plenty of time
to ponder what God was
thinking of when he created
the tiny house ant.
Dewdrops cling to blades of grass,
they glisten in early morning light.
Nature's peace is come to pass.
Tall trees stretch to their fullest height,
foggy mists drift ‘round their edges,
glisten in early morning light.
Flower buds peer shyly from the hedges,
like maidens stirring to love’s first call,
mists of fog curl ‘round their edges.
Creeper vines hug a garden wall,
green sentry guarding a patch of flowers
young maidens stirring to love’s first call.
Sunlight will soon display its powers,
as bushes offer their leafy shades
green sentry guarding a patch of flowers.
This landscape painting of an early morning:
dewdrops clinging to blades of grass,
leafy shades of bushes waiting.
Nature's peace is come to pass.
To Know Without Knowing
Red moss, crimson as blood of a slaughtered calf,
I knew I had seen it before but could not recall
where or when. Like seeing a landscape painting
knowing I had been there before, long time ago.
In the valley of cobblers children ran barefoot on
summer grass and they scented of wildflowers
unpasteurized milk and healthy, innocent laughter.
I know this to be true but don’t know why?
I think of reindeers would they eat red moss used
as they are to the grey variety? Sun keeps shining
like Spanish blood orange with a wicked cold.
The good earth is dry, waits for rain…plenty of it.
The red moss is a forgotten love story and perhaps
if I sit still long enough and wait I will remember it.