An Ode to The Three O'Clock Sitting

--An ekphrasis written for Matisse's Three O' Clock Sitting--

(1924)

The cerulean waters lap and curl their way

Around the little white boats that perch

Upon the waves and rock back away with

Fervor of the afternoon hour of gold.

By the lighthouse not far off, a little home

Within it, framed beauties decorate antiquity

Spotted silhouettes of red and green, marble

Sculptures too. Art is celebrated here.

A bright pupil sits clothed in blue chrism

It’s floral speaks of new hopes and femininity

She’s still learning to paint outside the lines

Master abstracts and color tensions

The subject’s crevices and curves endear

The light and flirt together with such character

And the pupil paints each goosebump patiently.

The room musks with warmth and sweet humidity.

The pupil sits with a foot a perch the easel, concentrating

And remembers the goosebumps of her past

Nervously straight behind the red velvet fabrics,

Lines and body language memorized perfectly.

The dress holds her chest back just slightly too tight

The audience whispering sheens of eager chatters

All the calendars mark this inevitable date

In red, and all eyes beam now with a sparkle.

But she is not as elated. Standing just stiff.

“A fresh insight into emotion” Once complemented the Post.

Those were the days of lights and freedom

Before the nagger crept it’s way into her brain.

This new character gossiped of pressure and nerves

And pressed her menacing agenda of ruined reputation

The perils of getting older in this acting business

And ripening negatively, soon to be forgotten.

The nagger fought with her fame and made

Her stomach squeeze and worry. Until the

Bright fabric lifted up and the light pointed

To her fear and laughed along with the audience.

It was a bad dream, wasn’t it? That moment

When she got up on stage with her plethora

And armor of learned lines. And just stared

At the people blinking. Not a dream.

So here she sits, carefully studying the collarbone

Of her naked model of mixed nuded strokes

The palettes various mixes and brush’s movement

Sooth her nerves and smooth the goosebumped past.

Her attempts begin with a simple wash of basics

And continue with organic shapes that cover each

Atop the other. There is a certain fun in figuring

The perfect hues for contours of human anatomy.

Brushes and color are the start of art. A larger

Encompassing real, the textures of thought.

That help distinguish the piece from plain to pretty.

Never underestimate the power of color choice.

Picasso had shared these thoughts with her

Over cappuccinos and scones, simply comforted

Her worries absorbed with the pores of clean cloth

Lopping up to carry the tangible and make it real.

Gently, she pats the cloth onto the art, to lessen

The darkness under the neckline of the model

The harsh lines are calmed with this cloth

If only it did so for her scars of fright

But still, she alternates the pressure of her strokes

And creates the layers of dimension. Content.

This realm of swirly mixes of peach orange

Purple and shamrock green. Here, she has control.

The subject repositions her knee and places

A lock round her ear. This nervous straight

Reminisces of the bright velvet fabrics. Fear.

The naked feelings now mirror each and other.

These goosebumps, still remembered but

Calmer with the hand gestures of the brush

Sparkle in her eyes, she’s still creating.

They shine content at the product.

Behind the Mauve

--An ekphrasis loosely based on Picasso's Woman in White, 1923--

The cushion is surrounded by frothy rings

Of shadow. She slumps there, with her heart.

It's cracks remain. Emotions seem to move slower

than the chords of a ballad. She’s alone.

The mauvey marbles spread along her face

Only one wish is to forget those things

Sweet amber smells and delicious words

Her eyes though, still stuck on the thing

She most wishes to forget. There once

Was a time when peaches were very ripe

When the mess of mind felt organized

The key at the end of the tunnel was found

The passion was there, gentle but strong

With foundations of disobedience and hormones

Under the streamlined white warmth coming down

From the sun, they were one with the trees.

Unnoticed hours passed, jumping hearts

The ninth cloud became the unerasable image

The love geese had found each other , it seemed clear

But the tunnel was, in a way, too narrow.

Her home lay in the thick of cloud nine

A beacon of yellow in a  gray world

Floating in wreaths of endless possibilities, holly.

These goals wrapped in naiveties of future.

G-d is not the puppeteer. We are not his puppets.

Exactly what we put in makes us who we are

Successes defined by money in this hedon world

This was his mind, an outcome of his tarnished past.

For a while, these two minds complemented each other

Strings of hope held tight between their fingers

Gazing eyes connected with serious smiles, always.

Roadblocks fueled both parties with fiery overlaps.

Through the seasons, the fruits of labor ripened

Foundations sometimes cracked and opposites

Fought the passion and faded it into something else

The amber sweet smells started to feel temporary.

The yellow beacon wasn’t strong enough. Naiveties.

Try convincing a concrete wall to stop being concrete.

And then he said those four words that closed them

Through tears, “I can’t believe anymore”

--

Now, streams of tainted words wrap themselves around

Her mind until no more pain can come.

The streams squeeze her until she is numb.

Oaths are lies when they don’t come true.

But it’s finally over. She can rest now, supposedly.

No, her mind cycles faster to attempt to unravel

Those mangled tainted words she can’t forget.

The scars slowly peal their way off, sometimes.

Like tattoos that wear off. The thinking cures.

Beating odds. Breaking rules. None of that.

Only childish pulls now. Lies. Expired with the milk.

But with each day, those words loosen hold.

But still, melancholy overstays her welcome.

Was it ever true? Why did it happen? Questions

Remain embossed on her face, no plan to leave.

Now, her gates are shut tight, the shade is only mauve.

She locks the gates and throws the keys out.

Keys have no use for questions without answers.

The yellow beacon is mute for now. Change wonders

if she will ever creep into her jaded soul.

Yellow Words :)

Tick. Tock. It's hanging from the metal loops
Swinging back and forth making cuts in the wind
The lover place hold is no longer breathing
It expects nothing, the scars run deep.

Time heals all wounds, apparently. At least
that's what the books say. Books lie. He lied.
The once, bright full heart of red now hushed
Her lips don't rest. Tight, zipped, closed.

There is moss on the keys sitting in the grass.

Sprinting still though, she’s happier now. Even

With the muted corner. Time has told it’s tale.

The passing of ticks and tocks cures alone.

But that’s not it.The dissolve is accompanied

With something new shining through the gate’s

Pickets. The stubborn gates purse and pucker

But the shining flickers persist on past the pout.

Tightened for a while with the rays push.

Until one day, the glimmer takes a new path.

She takes out one earplug, and listens to hear

Yellow words of endless nights and sheer amusement.

The gates hold closed but wither slowly away

With each passing day, the edges soften. Affirmed.

The shine allows pain, mistakes, and imperfections.

But the lock holds on, in the moss. The fear is stronger.

The yellow words keep to their cute chatter even if

She doesn’t let them through. The pickets though

Are almost gone, held by only one splinter of wood.

It’s hard to ignore the glistening smile she now wears.

One day, those last splinters go with the wind and

She’s left there, unveiled without the layer of safe.

Yellow’s arm reaches down to her and picks her up

And twirls her in the air, with the echoing laughs.

The nets are released and opened. Finally, she

Allows herself to feel the childish pulls again.

Distant now, the tainted words sit in the moss.

She’s learned trust, and this time it’s better.

Sea Surface of the Clouds by Wallace Stevens: A New Stanza

In that November off Tehuantepec

Night stood still with the slopping of the sea.

Just some moonly white melted on the deck.

And made one think of tickled chatter

And smooth noises. A slow mint green,

Tip-toeing through the white, pristine.

Of ocean, sways her wavy tendrils

Who then, stays to watch the fun that

She chippers, playing with her lashes.

Chippers? The buzzing hovers round

the crocheted waves of blue flex and coil

Ce fut ma vie, mon amour, le bleu.

The sky whispers a tune of chirp

And smiles gazing down at the curvy

Tendrils. They reply with sweet nothings.

Pearly clouds fluffen up the open space

like freshest pillows feathers flurry

The moon reflects frost unto the blue.

(Full poem here)

A Metaphor (Poem)

Spunks creativity with pink lamps
speckled smiles spread around
the yarn ball unfurls itself and rolls
to the edge of the Earth over the cliff.

The ball mushes and morphs itself into
the ripples below. Minting ambiguity.
Sassing through, her fingers carress and cup
the clay to create shapes. They glow.

Zooming out from the green circles
Leaves. A corn maze. Running through
But she has no care for the Maze's implication
Order is dumb. Leaved branches do still break.

So. She sees the path, and still, ignores it.
Rips through past the leaves. Energy's curse.
Fiery shapes of translucence fester within
and overlap out of her mouth to scream.

She jumps over the barbed wire so that the
textures run around free. Rough sparkles. Soft spikes.
No speed. No time. No pre-associations.
Guess that's how it'll be today. Giving in.

The paper has curled out and the bliss is known.
No constraints can hold spunks creativity
The glowing clay is certain. The pink lamps are true.
The heaviness has dissolved and cleared.