Le Rendez-vous

Tags

art, beauty, France, museum, Paris, passion, Poem, Poetry, Prostitution, truth

Le Rendez-vous

(written for DversePoets)
(my French is rusty, so I had google help translate, translation below)

Un rendez-vous au musée du Louvre
avec la Belle Madame.
Elle cherche pour la vérité
de la passion et de la beauté.

Elle ne les trouverez pas
parmi les personnes
ou entre les galeries.

Cette vérité se reveille les soir.

Elle se glisse dans les rues
et sur les briques ancienne
et imprègne l’air
comme un bon vin
ou le fromage vieilli.

Elle saute aux Champs-Elysées
et danse entre les jambes
d’une centainne de femmes.

Ici, les couleurs sont en fleurs.
Ici, la passion chevauche la vérité
tous les soir
jusqu’à ce que le soleil
apporte la maîtresse sévère
of morning. 

Translation:

A rendezvous

A rendezvous at the Louvre
with The Beautiful Woman.
She searches for the truth
of passion and of beauty.

She will not find these things
among the people
or in the galleries.

This truth awakens at night.

It glides in the streets,
over the old bricks,
and permeates the air
like a good wine
or an aged cheese.

It skips to the Champs-Elysée
and dances between the legs
of a hundred women.

Here, the colors are in bloom.
Here, passion rides truth
every night
until the sun
brings the harsh mistress
of morning. (play on words with mourning)

Comments welcome!

Nostalgia

Tags

art, crayons, graffiti, growing up, memory, nostalgia, Poem, Poetry

The soft coo of pigeons bounce
as stale breadcrumbs
scatter under the bridge
of what was manifest,
now forgotten.

“Bread’s too hard to eat,” he says,
wiping his brow with the kerchef.
He stretches on the rocks,
a misshapen big toe blasting
through the soils of boot and sock.

“When I was kid, the water still flowed.
If it flooded, it made it about to where I sit.”
The raccoon paused its mud scavenge
to regard him with an eye for shinier things.

He glances back to the graffiti painted,
green, yellow, red on the concrete
decades ago when children
could do such things
and consider themselves brave.

He takes his coffee off the fire,
pulls out a gray hair
with his half gloved fingers,
sips warmth back to his bones.

He sets down the mug,
starts rifling through his pockets,
frantically,
till he finds the plastic bag
containing his most prized possession.

He opens the lid
of the yellowed-green box
to snort the smell
of not so hallucinatory,
primary and secondary colors –
crayons.

(Written for DversePoets, a poem about growing up)

Artistic

Tags

art, insanity, painting, Poem, Poetry, rubaiyat, straitjacket

The brushes firm as colors drip
to floor artistic feet a-slip,
then colors float by hands in flight
with pauses for his work to sip.

He dances hues, so morbid, bright
in tune to visionary’s sight –
a dash of blue, a streak of red,
a haze of green surreal light.

He whirls about till nearly dead
with crazéd visions, most of dread.
When eyelids tense, his eyes roll round
to play the visions in his head.

They play. They scream – walls white around,
the gag in place brings muffled sound
to tortures for his mind’s unfound
with arms and brushes tightly bound.