RED DOT

I have visited countless galleries,
stared at or shielded my eyes
from all manner of art, but
I always read the plaques
affixed to the walls, name
of artist, of work price,
the relative  amount speaking
to the financial state of the gallery.

I actually care very little about
the name of the artist other
than as a historical reference,
for the piece has already spoken
or remained in total silence.

I do glance at the title
and wonder why so many 
artists, of infinite creativity,
when it comes to words
are struck mute, and tell me
their work is simply “Untitled,”
which for me is but another 
way of saying, unpurchasable.

BLUES

He is for it or he is
against it, and if you could
predict the vacillations you
could develop the means
of measuring the flux of sanity.

You could as easily grasp
the water flowing downriver
and by asking select questions
determine the next heavy rain,

but the odds are good
you will be outside when
the deluge begins, and
only its ultimate weight
and duration remain to be felt.

It all comes down to the same
thing, if you could paint the sky
blue, precisely which shade
of blue would you use and why
that one for heaven’s sake

MONA

Of course, she’s sitting there,
calmly, staring off onto space.
She has to know something
is amiss, no one has come
to visit her in days, but she
knows that whenever, if ever,
whatever it is that is happening
is finally over, that they
will once again return, stare
at her, wonder aloud and silently
why she is smiling, and she
will as always say nothing, for
she was once told that it is better
always to leave them wanting more.

Tomorrow Paris will count
its newest dead, and the hospitals
will pray the tide of bodies
has been stemmed, or diminished
and none of those in the battle
will pause and consider DaVinci’s
lady imprisoned forever in her
sterile room, an eternal prisoner.

First published in Dreich, Issue 20, Autumn 2020 (Scotland)

DEFINE-ITELY

It takes only moments for someone
to ask for a definition of poetry.

That task is at once terribly
simple and equally impossible,

a poem is many things
but not now or ever:

a paean to a self-aggrandizing
leader without soul
or sense of direction,
moral and literal;

a rant on how
all are conspiring
against you despite
your stable genius;

a Jeremiad decrying
facts contrary
to what you wish
them to be;

any attempt you
make or condone
to rewrite
“The New Colossus.”

THINGS TO COME

One morning last week I decided
to plant myself at a busy intersection
and begin reading poetry, mostly
my own, I have to admit.

I was generally ignored, my usual
state, and that sadly of most poets,
when a scruffy, bearded young man
set up easel and paint next to me.

The morning seemed to relish
the stillness of this urban way station,
and we were easily ignored by the odd
pedestrian on her way to please not here.

As lunch hour approached, the streets
filled, and we were ready, this was
our moment, our world, until the
asylum escapee joined our duality

and preached loudly to those who
dared not avoid us, that the end
was nigh, and that we, artist and poet
were the living promise of heaven and hell.

ENSO WHAT

Today I again took up the brush,
carefully mixed the sumi-e ink
and with hand poised over a sheet
of anticipating rice paper waited,

knowing that the moment for a stroke
was imminent but not yet at hand,
and I dare not force it for brush
painting is a practice that cannot

be compelled, a gentle merger
of idea, brush, ink and paper,
and if any are missing, a sadness
that can only be irreversible.

Today the brush considered the ink
and decided it was not a good day
and so I cleaned it carefully, set it
aside with the block of ink,

and rolling the rice paper, promised
it, myself, that we would repeat
this exercise until the moment was
right and the image was ready to appear.

BROKEN TRAY 鐵笛倒吹 九十

If you accidentally break
a wise man’s possession
do you leave him
with one that is incomplete
or two awaiting completion.

If he asks you to replace it
you may search endlessly,
bring him a thousand replacements
but expect him to reject each one
as never being the same
as the original.
If you grow dejected, remember
he still has the original
in the cupboard.

A reflection on case 90 of the Iron Flute Koans

WYNWOOD

They leap from the walls,
they are in your face as you approach.
You don’t know what to expect
and that is precisely how they wish it.
Still, you don’t tire of them, and you
don’t recoil, but stare more intently.
They engage you, defy you and welcome
in the same moment, and you
only want to follow them deep
within the cinder block, the plaster,
and take up residence alongside them,
and from afar, the mural artists smile.


For Something Different, a new bird photo each day, visit my other blog:
Bird-of-the-day.com 

THAT MOMENT

There is always that moment
when I stand stock-still,
afraid to move, the poised camera
a lead weight on my hands, arms
emaciated hammocks dangling
from shoulders inviting something
that will not come into focus.

The Great Blue heron, who is the sole
focus of my attention, stares at me,
or through or perhaps past me,
with a patience I try failingly
to emulate, knowing I will
look away, lower the camera, see
an egret, an ibis, someone
who will give me pause, and
the heron will take flight and I
with twitch of finger will capture
that place that she so recently occupied.


For Something Different, a new bird photo each day, visit my other blog:

Bird-of-the-day.com 

ABRIDGED STORY

On our first visit to Prague
it was almost hard to imagine that this bridge
was built to ferry people and traffic across the River.
Now it is jammed with tourists and those
for whom tourists are a ubiquitous market,
and anyone needing to expeditiously cross
the cranky water that every now and again must
indulge the bridge, or use the less interesting bridges adjacent.
There is a veneer of age about this ancient
the statuary darkened by time and weather
replaced when the waters get truly petulant
and carry off statues they deem an affront.
Motion on the bridge is slow and can tend
toward gridlock, to the joy of those
selling art and tchotchkes, and tchotchke arts
that won’t be truly regretted by the buyer until
it is hung on the wall next to the waterglobe
miniatures of St. Matthias church and
the parliament buildings Budapest.