Mama Squirrel fussed with her curls,
claiming they were “the finest fall swirls.”
Her leaf-crown of gold,
kept slipping in the cold,
Papa strutted like he was king of the squirrels.
Junior kicked leaves in a blaze,
sending showers of amber in playful displays.
Pumpkins lined the scene,
cider steamed warm between,
and the portrait looks like they were a bit crazed.
He dies in colors, soft streaks of agony.
A brush drips red, his pulse fading pale.
Canvas glares like a silent judge,
edges frayed, stretched to rupture.
Every breath, a bruised whisper of creation.
Turpentine ghosts choke the air.
He is both weapon and wound,
hands trembling on poisoned timber.
Each stroke bleeds away his hours,
pigments crushed under frantic weight.
Living kills him slowly: waking, eating,
pinned beneath the weight of vision.
His palette reeks of ruin, marrow-deep gray.
The easel leans, a crooked crucifix.
Shadows coil beneath his feet, rooting him.
Paint wars with him; the war is his own.
Art consumes, art devours, he lets it.
Sacrifice shows teeth, most dire.
He falls, into his masterpiece burning.
Ash scatters hues, he becomes his release.
At the night late
I portrayed your sculpture great
Fingers stole your image
I stored in my heart rage
Blind I gave you the way
For what you granted me that day
our wedding day portrait
two made one
misted by years
masked by smoke-filled skies
bobby, gina—two of our three
days seared with sun and a child’s scuffed knee
through spelling tests piano recitals saturday games
kneeling together strokes of unquestioned belief
caps and gowns, crystal and dented brass
degrees in business and medicine
marriages grandchildren colors filling the sassafras
then job losses metastasis scares hospital gowns
loneliness
values smudged
quibbles spatter pigment
no one budged
boredom drowned in tanqueray the glass smelled of pine
blue smoke, screens, two strangers behind painted glass
lost in a bell jar of belladonna
two martini glasses, an untouched olive
the letter’s paper like granite, vows sun-washed away
body mind and spirit—desaturated
a torn canvas split along jagged lines
no reconciliation
reimagining life with unfamiliar faces
a torn canvas becomes two paintings
no masking tape or super glue
can ever repair a canvas torn in two
=======
Isn’t that you smiling from your abyss
Devoid of anything found and missed
Caught in the middle to lose at both sides
Watcher of time with its high and low tides
Doer of nothing and listener of rain
Living through ages you dared to attain
There you sit in your saggy armchair
There you think of what nobody cares
Anyone who is alive seems fed up
Those who are dead never drank from your cup..
to become a masterpiece
it starts with c lu t te red
c
h
a
o
t
i
c sketches
paint-splattered smudges
bleeding blotted lines
failed impasto
in fractured form
but eventually,
the canvas begins to glow
through wet brushes,
drop and lift
subtle shifts
of calm chiaroscuro
bold, breathing bursts of colours
layer upon luminous layer
pigment pressed with patient precision
each stroke of calm caresses
until the vibrant hues
that softly kiss
the quiet
quivering glow
of your smile
are finally framed.
Painted a picture.
I thought I drew you well.
Mixed moonlight with memory,
called it truth and framed it on the wall.
I gave your silence a laugh,
your absence a pulse,
stitched constellations into empty sleeves
and dressed a ghost in gold.
Every brushstroke was a prayer
for a miracle to stay still.
I shaded your flaws with mercy,
highlighted your virtues with hunger,
until the canvas knew you better
than you had ever known yourself.
Visitors stopped and stared.
"Who is that?" they'd ask.
And I'd smile, because I didn't know.
The eyes belonged to hope.
The mouth belonged to loneliness.
The hands belonged to every goodbye
I was too frightened to release.
Then one morning the paint began to crack.
The colors slid downward like tears,
revealing the white beneath,
the terrible holiness of nothing.
That's when I understood:
I never lost you.
I lost the masterpiece
I made from empty space.
And standing before a blank canvas,
for the first time in years,
I met the artist.
Not the illusion.
Me.
She personifies the rift between town
and gown in the city,
pageant pretty, in pale pinks pellet,
lace sleeved adorned,
like a primrose she stands prominent
a gringo cigarette in one hand
Mexico’s flag in the other,
her country ‘tis of thee
like the contrafactum
of an earlier English anthem
God Save the King,
American democracy
she paints her de facto
her homeland in turmoil,
under an anthropomorphized sun
lest the moon’s clash in her own sky
Olmec ruins, laid foundation
stone heads, deep-rooted cacti
leaving behind the natural nation
she’ll advance athwart
contra the cold chicken coop
industrialization’s smokestacks,
the iconic River Rouge Plant
ugliness versus beauty
a glossy façade?
homesick for her pagan past
The moon sat quietly over the horizon
pushing her will on the vast ole sea
we pretended not to see it
but it was all that we could see
There was nothing vanilla about her
wrapped around these candied apple dreams
an allure of pure excitement
wandering through the deep
a portrait in pale blue light
shining for a world and me
I could sense the colors performing
inside where darkness lie
a promise beheld beside her
a soul the wind would find
She sits in silence with a shepherd's smile
simple but demure
strikingly, a quiet allure
lips painted with moonlight
how I dare to get near
and slightly brush away the fear
a look, a glance, a studied eye
but if just once, he wonders why
he sits in silence with a shepherd's smile
taking in her all
a simple task
a longing ask
to brush the hair
out of her eyes
it's just one kiss
one simple chance
one beautiful life
Inside the room
where everything is too still
as if even air has agreed to behave
She stands in green,
deep weighted,
deliberate
like a thought that has been
stitched into fabric
so it cannot escape its own meaning
He stands across from her,
not touching,
not moving toward or away,
as if distance has been arranged
with crescent care
and called love
Above them, a chandelier holds itself
like a paused sangria sun
its empty candles
insisting on presence
without giving light
A small dog watches from the floor,
simple and certain,
as if loyalty is just another object in the room
that no one questions
And then there is the mirror
I do not notice it at first
the way you do not notice being watched
until you already are
In it, the room folds inward
The couple repeats itself
in miniature truth
And behind them someone stands
I realize then
it is not only a portrait
It is a record of witnessing
And I am not outside it
I am already in the glass
A card asks Lazarus:
Give me this little piece of ice,
On the map,
But it is "No" from Abraham:
Child, you ate a lot of ice cream in your life,
A lunch in France,
Playing the game of Ishmael and Hagar,
A zebra without marked stripes now, savage,
Sin's slavery,
Antediluvian giants and dwarfs,
On this big table of authoritative vampires,
Dragon Dracula's castle,
On this glossy island,
In flames of fire,
That unworthy night,
Outer darkness,
To illuminate?!
Eyes wide shut,
A hound in the swamp,
Around galerinas autumnalis marginata,
Without the icon alive in the Book of Lamb,
That picture of Dorian with fake sapphires,
A millstone on the place of immaculate Ark,
This sacrifice,
Too late for your escape,
The answer of our father, alas, Cain brother,
In so shady house,
With pharaoh's sarcophagus like a butterfly,
And the speckled band,
"Toxic powerful man" said Gregory the Theologian of Nazianzus,
Seeing you in your magus cap.
What if my portrait was never painted
How different would it be if the brush never touch the canvas
Would the exhibit of the world be effected or even notice
The brush lay barren and frayed
A composition of colors never mixed
The foreground forever lost in the artist's imagination
Complex beauty lost to time
A idea wasted
Potential Pigment still sat in vibrant petals
Canvas never primed or lay to an easel
How different would it be if the brush never touched the canvas
If my portrait was never painted, would it be better?
“Summer vibes shimmer in cold mind
with tepid touch of warmth”- Quote by poet
The crimson sun of demure dawn
burns to show summer hasn’t yet gone.
Sapphire sky at high noon still glows
with shining luster of its own.
From the horizon hot wind blows,
on smoldered leaves rippling warmth flows.
Parched trees sieve streaks of sunburst light,
ground weaves lattice of scorched shadows.
Southern zephyr of tinged twilight
wafts with vibrant hues of dusk bright.
Singed sky shimmers with color spree,
paints summer portrait of delight.
In calm air at nightfall I see
the dance of moondust with esprit.
The alcove of my enthralled mind
saves summer ambiance with glee.
Love is God's knowable
personification, Glorious relatable
Image. An old man with a white
Beard, metaphysical force
No matter -- love is what I
Frame and place on my
Worship altar. The face of love
I talk to. My prayer companion daily,
The receiver of my thankful words,
Focus of my brightest smile -- state
of spiritual grace I strive to fully emulate.
Portrait of my indwelling Divine
Radiance. God is not hidden from
Those who seek love not to hide.
As God would want me I will do my
best to abide.
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