I was framed

Words wouldn't come
so I went with paint,
but the body was too thick
and the primaries screamed
even when kept apart

Those threads I cannot read
through
the prepositions and problems
drama and canvas scenes

in media res, centripetal
room at the edges
so bubbles don't pop
as tempting as black is

Purple pretends perception
like lines of sight
the same lines that bind
up brains and I's
omnisciently we see,
underneath it was red,

with light
become plane as day,
in a literal sense.



Arttwork By Michael Sevier (illustrator) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Grains

More than once

you find me

Open, accepting

of the visit, intrusion-

Not that

it is-you are

-unwelcome-

Insistent, indeed and once

I look at you again,

One begins to recognise

A feature-

There-it is-pushing into

view, a rise out of you- 

and I felt I knew you already.

Somehow you seem different, today.

You seem bent by paint, 

or diffused light through crystal as

strung up window ornaments.

It is that smell that tells me

You are close enough to see the

expressions, stretches or sweat, 

through thirst and famine.

More salt is needed,

Wouldn’t you say?


Painting by Valentin Serov, Portrait of Olga Trubnikova (1886) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Canvassing the scene

Perhaps it is only when we paint
that we can taste each dash of color
on our palette.
Like when we listen
to silence
and find none.
And where we see
almighty vistas
and are awed in a splendor,
agape at the sheer place
of our infinitesimalness.

If you close your eyes and exhale-
notice, the black dissipates...
The volume condenses
to more than a sense
of some thing.
And when you look again,
it is evermore,
 the first time you've seen
this way.
That is
a work of art.




Painting by Henri-Jean Guillaume Martin [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.