The lamps inside my home
are quite unique;
Mid-Century Modern-
those styles still speak.
All those remaining now
are deemed antique:
the sixties and
the seventies mystique.
White lucite spun to weave
translucent spheres
that rest on smooth brass stems
with walnut leaves.
Their creative, curvy lines
survived the years
as each collector searches,
finds, and cleaves.
As for the colors-
often bright and stark-
like avocado green
and orange too,
as lights inside the
lucite globes did spark
great interest
as their uniqueness grew.
The sixties and
the seventies mystique;
Mid-Century Modern-
those styles still speak.
All those remaining now
are quite unique.
The lamps inside my home
are deemed antique.
Categories:
lucite, appreciation, art, home,
Form: Rhyme
A stormy, cold scraped winter sight,
quiet song birds forsake flight,
down fluffed on pale limbs lucite,
a fantasy landscape, pearl blue.
In grey tone wrap, mist frozen dew,
her smooth complexion, silver hued,
Luna surveys earth's wild retinue
in closed dens of hibernate sleep.
Snow drifts creep the mountain steeps
and cuddle velvet valleys, deep,
where black streamlets forget to leap,
their summer memories iced still.
Winter plys her voluminous skill,
snow sculpting on each vale and hill;
queen portrait of a glass toned will
mirrored in each hardened lake.
She cherishes a world opaque,
makes the sun his warmth forsake;
the seasonal round's numb heartache,
a stormy, cold scraped winter sight.
December 5, 2017
Faye Lanham Gibson
Categories:
lucite, imagery, seasons, snow, winter,
Form: Rhyme
We need better plastics,
To hell with the bakelite saints
That stand silent inside,
The great wheels,
of the grand vehicle.
Forever sleeping behind visqueen,
Covered plexiglass,
hiding themselves
From the eyes of prophets,
And cruel November.
We need better plastics,
The Christ that guards
The scorpion forever persevered
In lucite;has become,
frail from the sunlight
And cracks, with each
Touch,slowly deteriorating
With each passing December.
Categories:
lucite, angel, conflict, dark, deep,
Form: Free verse
Transfixed upon a lucite sunray
the iron blood of longshoremen
washed beneath the whisperings of the bay
a pupil canvas pierced through
by the scalpel of elephantine deceit
vision yellowed in the flowering of a lost identity
the young man swallows deeply and mourns
the gist of his first twenty-nine years.
Categories:
lucite, anniversary, depression, introspection, life,
Form: Free verse