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Show Me the Monet Serenely and divinely Japanese! How else could one describe Claude's garden scene Of water lilies under willow trees Where nature has been made to look pristine? Maybe instead describe it as a fraud: East meeting west where you and I are conned To think the garden's how 'twas seen by Claude! ... Have you not wondered if his painted pond Erased a truth? I mean discarded junk, Moved out of sight by short and deft brush strokes, Oils gracing canvas, till you would have thunk No one could guess Claude played the best of jokes— Except if they had seen a shopping cart Tipped over in the pond in Banksy's art! (Prompted by this article; first published in the Winter 2020 issue of Rat's Ass Review and reprinted in the Ekphrastic Review on January 12, 2021) |
Spinning A Dream Sweet dreams, my little child! But when you wake, Please do not think the bottom of the stair Is where we are ordained to stay. We'll make New lives for us across the ocean where New York now beckons. What will Mama do? I may not get flax-spinning work full-time. No matter! I'll take any job, so you Get educated, and we both may climb ... A steamship sails next week, and once we're there, Dreams will not be just dreams for you and me. Remember how your uncles climbed the stair: Embarking for the New World was the key ... America awaits. But till we steam, May you sleep sweetly, while I spin our dream! (First published in the Ekphrastic Review on January 29, 2021 as a response to Spinning Flax by Maria Marinetti) |
Our Day Will Come Our day will come, if only years from now: United, we are destined to prevail— Released from toil behind the mule-drawn plough, Discharged from bondage to the cotton bale. A day will come when we are truly free. Yet till that long-awaited day arrives, We labor in de facto slavery— Imagining our liberated lives ... Long years of subjugation nullified Lincolnian pronouncements made in vain: Crow's Law saw all our freedom brushed aside, Our loss in dignity made landlord's gain ... May we yet see oppression swept away? Emancipation will arrive that day! (First published in the Ekphrastic Review on March 12, 2021as a response to Employment of African- Americans in Agriculture by Earle Richardson) |
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Trombone Player The Dorsey stamp shows Tommy on trombone, Rejoicing to his sentimental sound Of swing, with Jimmy on the saxophone— Musicians whose great hits were world renowned! Big bands had never seen such skilled trombone: Ol' Blue Eyes said he learned to breathe his way, Not from a vocal coach, but from his own Experience of watching Tommy play! ... Perhaps, since Tommy's timeless, he belongs Less on a thirty-two cent stamp than where A stamp commemorates his classic songs, Yet also says they'll always fill the air ... Eternal tunes deserve this mail revamp: Releasing Tommy's own Forever stamp! (Prompted by a 1996 US commemorative stamp and first published in the Creativity Webzine on March 31, 2021) |
The Arrow Of Time The arrow maker's expert at his craft. His jasper points are honed with perfect skill, Each fastened with precision to its shaft— And when they fly, their flights bend to his will ... Reflecting on his daughter's changing role, Resignedly he grasps she too must fly: Of time, the arrow's not his to control, When any day a stranger might walk by ... Once Hiawatha comes, this father knows Fond days with Minnehaha soon will end— Time's arrow is the one that never slows: Its flight to Minnehaha's will must bend Most surely, bringing sadness to the day Events propel this daughter far away. (First published in the Ekphrastic Review on April 23, 2021 as a response to The Old Arrow Maker by Edmonia Lewis) |
Purple And Green Paths cross. Two strangers hurry on their way, Unsure of where they're going to, and yet Resolved to reach this place without delay, Persuaded that behind each silhouette Lurks danger. Trust no stranger. Press ahead. Escape means grief in silence must be borne. As purple garb pays homage to the dead, No words are said. Both strangers know both mourn ... Directions are opposed, and yet both seek Green pastures far away: they share a goal, Recovering from grief. Why don't they speak? Each lacks the words to soothe another's soul. Each hurries on, as if already late, Not sharing burdens, adding to their weight ... (First published in the Ekphrastic Review on May 21, 2021 as a response to After The Storm by Istvan Farkas) |