Each month, write a new collection.
On MondrianI can’t attend to all the blocksMy brain is just too small.So I must chooseWhich one is realWhich one will guide my mapTo which block do I give my goldWhich one can hold my soul.I’ll go with redCommanding strongSplashed in sacred bloodI tip toe in and findRefugee camp in redBursting at the edges Held firm by border blackSo noisy I can’t hear So lucky; I escape.There’s work I must still doI’ve got a second chanceThis time I’ll choose with patienceI’ll watch. I’ll prayI’ll listen to the languagesI’ll muddle in the maze.Now eternity slips byAs I noticeTucked in a cornerAn understated blankThe smallest blockIs quietThis one I enter, alone.
I love the surreality of this piece. Really beautiful!
"To which block do I give my goldWhich one can hold my soul"Best.
MondrianLines, of virtueSquares to protectThe color of yourEyes showsThe pictures uponWhichA mercy projectsand holds a sacredTouchLike a natures calmAnd the playfulSounds we hearwhen sitting still
That's great man. In these poems you're moving into a much simpler style. I love them!
The Gray TreeIn a collection of colorful cubeshidden behind geometric precisionI stumbled upon the gray treeIts oval canopy expanded blocking out a smoky blue skyI didn't trust the gray treeWith outstretched branches dark, extending fingers of woodI admired the gray treeFaded suedo-leaves dancinglike cobwebs luring a spider's mealI feared the gray treeThe broadness of its sturdy trunk the beauty that lingers inside sorrowI renowned the gray treeIts presence looming and largeyet fragile like a stained glass windowI am the gray tree
I love that last line! It TOTALLY makes a good poem amazing!
I actually had the last line 3 lines in. I literally wrote the whole poem around the last line
Mondrian explains existence It’s about the rectangleNo—The square.What is life? It’s all boxesSharp edgesThere can be no mistakes withBoxes and so it must be with justiceChild care, emergency assistance and even andEspecially the art of seeing.There’s no room for gray or green well perhapsJust a little of the latter but it’s all most red and black andA bit of blue and yellow but there’s noRoom for purple or pink so in order to live life fullyOr indeed at all, you’ll have to learn to perceive geometrically.Try it now. You see the circle? Great. Now pull on it, give it corners.Now you’ve got it.Sharpen sharpen. Now add the next one. And the next.
Composition and tableauWhere does this all goI’ve not identified this lozengeThe dying yellow flower Or the grey tree that will not growI feel the loneliness in the setting sunregret and fullness of times pastintense sadness yearning for homestudied reflections of a methodif only I could capture forever the very best technique for a whole still life
When unexpectedly confronted with Nature Died With Sunflower, Piet Mondrian, and the subversion of expectation of his work this painting engenderedYes I too see it the raw beauty of the track homesall-grid in both the vertical and the horizontal planes-peopletheir forks dangling from the cruciform phone linesand those of power in the natural extension of the redwood and the pines into the spines uprightlances of business men and the dwellings where they stand orsleep it takes courage to see this continuous beauty not the demarcation of humanand nature between which no line of distinction can be drawn but between the non-goldof the sunflower and the bold color of the sky that entombs herin these rigid fields that you thought straight- jacketed her until the cracks appearedin the paint of the wood plank fences sparked with superficialerosion showed you no such regularitiessplit our dimensions or beings but that the field declares itself open and fullby itself queer and each snared irregularity is a better signifier for decay like waterin the bottom of the glass where the once milk is suspended by its own nippled levitycaked into milk-white clay and unthinkably undrinkableas the cuneiform sky or the low slungcrossbeam from which hangs the manwho dares not believe he has a tailno matter how small between his legs.
rose drinking its lastdraught of life - bathed withinsevere orange fire