There is something that is almost love
The artist's call to capture an existence, symmetrical and pure.
It is magnetic and yearning
prying open my chest cavity and rearranging the vital organs to make a home for itself.
I almost love him.
I do not; it is but a trick of the light falling across his cheekbones
A muse that sculptors would've envied
Yet my heart quickens, seduced by the imperative to interpret such beauty
I am not a moth to a flame
I am a muralist to a whitewashed wall
A composer in a quiet room
A sonnetist to a blank page
but then the moment fractures, its fragile potentials
puddling back into reality once more.
I found sweet deeps to plunge you in
where oceans cease and vaults begin
the wakes there roil in brumes of mist
and cheeks of sky are blushing, kissed
the face oft’ graced with features, yours
thus featured with what each adores
soft bats each lash o’er polished stars
that melt midst moony eyes … like ours
for beauties borne as thine shine bright
ne’er chanced askance for fancied flight
and should some others draw those gifts
they’re tossed to where the flotsam drifts
lest drowning cold what absence pours
they’d take from light what light abhors
and float there buoyant twixt dark clouds
their vixened visage swirled with shrouds
still -
most looking glasses feign that grace
should god-skilled sculptors give such face
for women’s charms are poised and crowned
to swoon their prince where hopes are bound …
with wonders soft …
and warm …
and round.
winter found its way
midst icy mists of snowfall
and its bas relief
of abstract patterned snowflakes
to please young and old with its
centurys-old splendor
as trees of lights and tinsel
light boughs of fresh pine
with hints of forest faeries
A wonderland complete in
its snowman sculptors
with rosy cheeks and big smiles
that beckon singers
round fireplace remembering
many prefer the summer
some of us prefer summer
In the gardens of shadows, where resentments bloom like poppies,
Politics becomes an art of illusions, a theater of masks.
The despotism of the masses dances on the invisible strings of time,
And conservatism and liberalism are just faded echoes.
Partisans pour their blame like a river of ink on dry paper,
Blaming the victorious shadows that float like clouds of smoke.
But the true sculptors of these idols are the ravenous masses,
Who build their leaders from the illusory clay of desires.
In democracy, where ignorance triumphs like a soundless orchestra,
Hysteria becomes the queen of the silent ball, dancing to the rhythm of madness.
The siren songs of the past are just forgotten whispers,
In a world where the light of truth is a trembling flame.
Paradox floats like an eagle in the sky of sleeping consciousness,
And the melancholic magic of time erases the boundaries of reality.
In this labyrinth of the mind, we find fragments of eternity,
Lost in the hourglass of the world, like sand silently flowing.
Night,
Ageless and porous,
Sang screeches of fireflies of
Crescendo-diminuendo sparks.
What hour?
In the midst of the hustles, I lost my hoursight
Different, tonight, is my eyesight, seeing even
Through the darkest foliage of gentle, but sinister
Caress sway.
On the broken, cracked slabs, squatting, dark torsos!
Pensive, broken, sad, old and so good the
Work of Italian sculptors.
Further deep in searching glare, the hardened
Mats of hurried sepultures of returning
Soldiers, whose wellingtons have squelched in
Mudblood.
Wars and battles never post blandishments
On peace.
What hour now, brother?
It is so dark and mean, and my hourglass refuses a
Moon reflection.
But now the hours move fast on march of the
Headless feet in wellingtons.
'Left, right, left, right....'
Dolts hasten among fleeing marabouts.
Stench from ailing, balmed smog
Stills the whiffs of roasting deer, all in
One silence of close hour canticles...
Such phalanx, brother, coldens the head.
I found sweet deeps to plunge you in
where oceans cease and vaults begin
the wakes there roil in brumes of mist
and cheeks of sky are blushing, kissed
the face oft’ graced with features, yours
thus featured with what each adores
soft bats each lash o’er polished stars
that melt midst moony eyes … like ours
for beauties borne as thine shine bright
ne’er chanced askance for fancied flight
and should some others draw those gifts
they’re tossed to where the flotsam drifts
lest drowning cold what absence pours
they’d take from light what light abhors
and float there buoyant twixt dark clouds
their vixened visage swirled with shrouds
still - most looking glasses feign that grace
should god-skilled sculptors give such face
for women’s charms are poised and crowned
to swoon their prince where hopes are bound …
with wonders soft …
and warm …
and round.
Harlem in the 40s
Harlem in the 40s was a place of rhythm and soul
Where music was the language and jazz was the goal
Where singers and musicians made the crowds go wild
Where swing and bebop and blues were the style
Harlem in the 40s was a place of art and flair
Where painters and sculptors showed their talent and care
Where colors and shapes and forms were the expression
Where beauty and meaning and vision were the impression
Harlem in the 40s was a place of words and wisdom
Where poets and writers shared their stories and opinions
Where rhyme and meter and metaphor were the tools
Where inspiration and emotion and message were the rules
Harlem in the 40s was a place of joy and wonder
Where people celebrated their culture and their power
Where creativity and innovation were the norm
Where Harlem was a renaissance and a legend was born
next to fountain nude she stood,
a delight for all manhood!
her skin was fair, curls so black,
muscles showed down to her back.
her hands were on both her breasts,
smile was invite to the guests.
a few more girls kept her side,
not demure, their legs were wide.
there was joy and laughter too,
men milled around, stole a view.
wine with beer made men bawdy,
some old spinsters went rowdy!
nudes remained by the fountain,
sculpted stones from rock mountain!
nude stone sculptors are a charm,
why profane in human form?
“Le poëte est ciseleur, le ciseleur est poëte.” - Hugo
Poets, they are sculptors
Who wield their sharpened tools,
Who chisel not in stone,
But rather work to write…
Wordsmithing skills to hone.
Poets, they are sculptors
Who carve not into wood.
With imagery they play…
In grammar etching mood,
Emotions on display.
Poets, they are sculptors
Who fashion not in clay.
They mold in metaphor,
Using rhyme and rhythm,
With less, aiming for more.
Poets, they are sculptors
Who work with ink on page.
On paper trying to
Create in stanzas, lines
Something completely new.
Absent of pride, gave their lives, those they owed,
bloodlines warrant one soul's intended quest
persuades a past, that they constantly sowed
pastoral guides sculptors essence is blessed
Readiness spurs insights, smoothing passion
unforeseen tests that fool-hearted, not them
their unbidden stare on death's face, cash in
pushed e'er determined, tensing a rose stem
Unchecked horses, intrepid horsemen burst
barrage relents as foe feared those affirmed
lurked rears castle shadows most accursed
chance lights and afront darken all confirmed
won swords gained Heaven rewards fruition.
Bold victor of few words, save salvation.
In the tapestry of time, where friendships bloom,
Mes amis, like petals, dispelling life's gloom.
Brothers, firm anchors in the sea of existence,
Une soeur agaçante, a tempest, a relentless insistence.
Parents, the roots, firmly grounding my being,
Leaves of wisdom, in the breeze, foreseeing.
Enemies, shadows that dance in the moonlit night,
Igniting the fire, propelling toward the light.
Obstacles, sculptors shaping destiny's mold,
Dans leur défi, a story to be told.
Life, un cadeau sacré, a gift from above,
Not a right to claim, but a testament of love.
In the symphony of struggle, where melodies intertwine,
Chutes et ascensions, a rhythm so divine.
Gratitude, a dance, through joy and despair,
Dans chaque souffle, God's presence in the air.
Number one on the list, au sommet, divine,
Grateful to Dieu, the source of the grand design.
In the dichotomy of good and bad, the ebb and the flow,
All glory to Lui alone, in the afterglow.
She seeks not a beautiful form to paint
but with virtues the mind to acquaint.
Her goal is not to sketch a perfect face
but to color lives with hope, love, and grace.
She does not chisel hearts as sculptors do stone
But shapes vessels that can stand on their own.
Her aim is not to mold hearts that conform
but to pour in principles that transform.
She writes on young hearts the words that are true,
not with clever ones as romantics do.
The goal is to train them in virtue’s ways,
and hope they practice them, through all their days.
Like a musician practicing a piece,
she teaches daily, her words never cease.
Her hope is that when her children are grown,
a noble character in them will be shown.
Hope may wane
and wishes fade
but art forever keeps
Dawn till dusk
till dawn again
incessance buried deep
Sculptors sculpt
and painters paint
as writers seize the day
Creation’s bridge
its toll insures
—tomorrow’s yesterday
(The New Room: September, 2023)
holding you in a dance
the side-by-side stroll
raising my arm is your cue
begins the whirlwind
a whisper crosses the floor
you turn into me
my hand slides to the hips
fold arm into mine
bringing in the warmth
cheek to cheek, lips to ear
i adore you
now the gentle separation
my arm reaches into the heavens
hers in hand as my other lowers
begins the magic in her pirouette
as she turns her hair rushes
shoulder to shoulder
i am spellbound in the wave
the foam appears receding, revealing
the ivory neck of the Venus i so adore
the ear comes into full view
where so often i hover
a butterfly caught in the magic
acquiring drams in a captivating meadow
moments spent in endearment
as that cheek-nose comes into view
i see Greek sculptors lost in a daydream
where chisel and stone await in reverence
as my hand pulls your hip in
lips in a simper, a delicious temptation
but not enough to deter our eyes embracing
as hysteria succumbs to ecstasy
our cheeks glide into one another
i am in a moment with her ear
i missed you
this is how my world turns
in the heavens we are
OKC 12/22
she is an exquisite dinner
awakens taste with beguiling smiles
a platter of kindness
wrapped in delicate crepes
lips that promise
a selection of wines
set for any course you so desire
a delicate glass never empty
a macedoine salad
stolen from the garden
of some goddess
a bewitching soup
dipped from a cauldron
enchantment in every spoon
that reaches the palate
fruits that have come from far
and forbidden shores
an intoxicating sweetness that consumes
all of the senses
and finally the piece de resistance
what drove Greek sculptors to stone
she is sitting across the table
OKC 06/22
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