Medium fits all

As the novelist is tempted to try
synopsizing and to nimbly stitch
a concise buttoned-up poem,

The poet reaches for the artists brush,
hoping his blended colors
will all come out in one broad stroke
as envisioned,

So does the artist become moved
by music in strokes of the latest
color combinations,
he paints a score to settle harmony
that escapes the canvas as a song,

And all are collaborations
of hand-eye articulation
expression in action,

As the photographer
captures realism completely
out of context,

The actor is able to enunciate
eloquently since he has had the script
beforehand,

interacting with his set he mimes
his role, the actor assumes his costume
as liar and professor,
adapting for his audience

The play,
what to think.

All artists play in living color, mixing
dead words and sterile symbology
waiting to be revived,
imbibed and misinterpreted
as original(s).




Image of painting By Etienne François-Eugène Lecoindre, 1882 (Sotheby's) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

(wee wonder)

What can we say
in One True Sentence,
said so-the Hemingway?

What can be
eternally true-
except, accept,
What is thought
by the poet...

What can the poet
paraphrase and contain
in one line taut
itty-bitty with immensity...

What can we imagine
and utter as real
What can we feel
and express as solidified
What can we read
that has not been said
What can be True
when nothing is eternal
except, accept,
what cannot be named
love.



Image of painting by Alexander Mann (oil on canvas) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

The Poet (Haiku)

Why do you poem?

An attempt to word wisely

while I understand.

Image by James Sant [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons (Enigma).

The most Prolific Poet I know

Prolific is not the same 

entitlement

as being called Profound

And despite how Proud

and Pretentious many P words

(such as these four) sound,

the difference 

is in the detonation.

I propose the pretension

that I am the most 

prolific 

(horrific) terrific

(pretending) poet I know-

yet notably remain unfound.

The prose does not resound

which goes to show-

Err Go

I have not a smatter-

of the latter. 

Image of painting by Umberto Boccioni, (1912) Horizontal volumes [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

10 Things I Never Do (Today)

The 10 things I NEVER do (today) include:
                                              Clock-in-OR
                                              Clock-out-is that two?
                                              Wear nylons-
                                               Paint my lips-
                                               Say 'Yessir' or commute, anywhere, ever
around about noon
halfway through                    I stop listening, change the channel,
                                              fine tune the static ring
in the melody of midday melancholy
nothing important is this bright
no reason to wait until its safe
to come out, face it, say it, bleed out-Out with it!
Sleep tight,
at midnight
as the schedule shows
                                            I sleep lucidly dreaming.
                                            I dream the life of a poet.
                                            I live in the lucid poets dream.

*This poem was composed as a response to the poem by Ted Berrigan, 10 Things I Do Every Day.
Composed 11/12/15.
Image by William-Adolphe Bouguereau, The Earrings, 1891. [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

                                       

No time for your rhyme

There once was a lyrical poet who rhymed,

intrigued by this technique he was so inclined,

to share his lovely rhymed verse-

now a decrepit olden time curse,

considered both uncouth and passé.

He continued to muse anyway,

and quietly pray that one day

someone will say, “Today, a rhyme is ok-

for children, but is certainly no Monet.”

But he won’t hear that last part,

believing his poetry is truly fine art.

His inspired poetic zeal,

lacked serious public appeal.

Born in the wrong time,

for silly old rhyme, 

not one publication with any imagination

gave a standing ovation-overall his narration,

they judged unscholarly and just juvenile-

mockingly, shockingly, straight into the slush pile.

All adverbs aside, this method of poetry he tried

and plied, still too proud for his own pride. 

All the while-

that he strung those rhymes in denial,

he believed his old poetry was in style.

Until one day, the rejections too many

more than the poems. So with his last penny,

he thought and bought a last wish at a fountain,

“If from rhymes I must abstain, making my poetry plain,

Instead,

I'd rather be dead."

And without any further adieu

his last dying wish came true. 

Image by Friedrich von Amerling [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.