Van Gogh & Co.

dOrsay21

 

 

 

 

 

The Louvre is over-rated it’s just not my cup of tea
The Pharaoh’s gear is awesome but the rest’s vacuity;
From Mona Lisa’s stamp-size frame to dorks in battle trounced
And weirdly outsized saintly sorts whose names I can’t pronounce
I much prefer the action on the counter-facing quai
Just straight across the Pont Royal to the Musée d’Orsay;
Perhaps it’s that I’m plebeian (sans-grade in Bourgeoisie)
The artists who real truths pursue are those I want to see.
More dirt under their fingernails than all their studio peers
These chaps just took their work outdoors in spite of other’s jeers;
With Nature’s inspiration under Heaven’s candid light
They set new standards, studies, styles, all unsurpassed delights.
I hail Van Gogh, Monet, Cézanne and all their splendid oeuvre
Who live across the river from the pompous, lofty Louvre.

Jazzman

jazzmanII Vector ClipArtOnline, Royalty Free & Public Domain

 

 

 

 

 

In a Downtown East Side cellar
Ceiling lowered by candle glow
All sit silent save the Jazzman
Ritzy waistcoat, sharp chapeau
Breathing brass into the bar-room
Surfing soundwaves to and fro
That cool dude is in his own world
Improvising like a pro
Riffing tremolo up spine-bones
Palpitating hearts aglow
Altered scales defying back-beat
Bluesy half-tones threatening flow
As the Jazzman vamps a coda
Treble shrill or alto low
In that Downtown East Side cellar
Ceiling lowered by candle glow
You’ll still find my friend the Jazzman
Same glint waistcoat, same chapeau
He’ll be blowing ‘til the Muses
Tell their brother come on home.

The View From My Age

The view from my age expands with every year
Though the horizon pretends no variation now;
The years disclose paler patchwork fields
Yet prudent stalks wield rich and finer yields;
The slender trees though frangible and spindly
Weigh less fruit but of rare and savored fare;
Rocks once rough eroded now and smoothed
Regale with narrative their storied strata bared;
The undulating contours and aquiline relief
Wear wrinkles sculpting countenance of character.
I’m more drawn to the towering back-lit peaks
Than to the gloomy gorges dipped in shade.

Codicil

bowtie

 

 

 

 

Please dress me in my three-piece midnight black
To suit me for this funereal occasion;
Donate my chequered ones to those who lack
The pattern of my life’s bright inclinations.
Then knot a fine bow tie to flaunt my tastes
The yellow one adorned with red carnations
But do not cross my arms or fingers lace,
I’ll not go in a stance of supplication.
On coffin’s silk please place near my right hand
All memories of my childhood and my children
And at my left the greatest dreams I planned
Achieved or not, they formed my apperception.
The volume of love’s pain and grief won’t fit;
Good riddance then, I’m finally free of it.

Two Eagles

Aspiring poets like myself searching for our own poetic ‘voice’ are advised to practice by emulating admired poets. This exercise has been found to heighten awareness of personalized delivery, leading to the development of one’s own individual voice. I share this tip with you good reader and the following attempt:

The Eagle
by Alfred, Lord Tennyson (1851)

He clasps the crag with crooked hands;
Close to the sun in lonely lands,
Ring’d with the azure world, he stands.

The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls;
He watches from his mountain walls,
And like a thunderbolt he falls.

~

The Eagle
by Mike McGuire (2014)

His wingtips sensing here and there
Through abstract tightwires in the air
Foretelling foe; foretasting fare.

Fraught talons taut on brittle branch
Absorbing tremors, haunches flinch
Then savage dive with deadly clench

Virus

Ebola_Virus

 

 

 

 

In a heartbeat
of lust-like licentiousness
a deviant microbe replicates
as parts of its sum cleave
with global generosity

Its sundered progeny hide
among invisibly merciless
hosts of mephitic atoms
aiming without targets
miasma sans frontièrs

Breathlessly we breathe
shun lover’s kiss of death
a close hug comforts none
grave world mulls end of life
in a heartbeat

Writer’s Block

notepad_pen

 

When asked his most feared thing
Papa Hemingway replied – a blank sheet of paper
Today that same pale page is mine

Sappho wrote – What cannot be said, is wept
Yet nothing flows fluidly from my mind’s eye
My soul’s ambrosial reservoir unfilled

The Bard declared – The purpose of words is to give them away
So I am the beggar starving with a hunger to host
a wordthy banquet where all may gorge

But because Bukowski barked –
Writing about writer’s block is better than not writing at all
I offer nothing but these thoughts this day