Blog Archives - High Desert Art

High Desert Art

Traveling

11/29/2015

*Claude Monet* 'Railway Bridge At Argenteuil'

Traveling

On
A
Train
From
Amsterdam
To
Spain
He
Said,
“I assume
You
Want
The
Whole
World
To
Be
Your
Living
Room.”
I remember
Now
Not
Because
It
Was
Him,
But
Because
It
Was
Me,
Wild
Hippie
Child,
Traveling
Alone,
Lonely
To
The
Bone.
Struck
Shy,
I had
To
Say,
“It’s
The
American
Way.”
Tickets
Were
Torn
And
Tossed
Aside
On
This
And
Other
Rides,
And
At
Some
Bridge
I crossed,
Such
Youthful
Ideals
Fell
Beneath
The
Wheels.

Party Blues

11/27/2015

*Jan Van Meyen* c. 1530

Party Blues

Woe
Is
Me,
I groan,
Sipping
My
Tea.
Sad
To
Say,
Yesterday
I had
Too
Much
To
Eat
Of
Assorted
Thanksgiving
Treats.
All
That
Chardonnay
That
Floated
Me
Away
Rose
In
My
Head
When
I got
Out
Of
Bed.
Today,
I fear
I must
Remain
Austere.
To
Say
The
Least,
I’m
Helpless
When
Confronted
With
A
Feast,
And
Wouldn’t
Have
Such
A
Tummy
Ache
If
I’d
Resisted
That
Extra
Cupcake.
Jolly
Holiday
Goes
The
Rhyme,
But
I’m
Pushing
My
Plate
Away
Next
Time.

Averse

11/25/2015

*Richard Stine*

Averse

Poetry
Worries
Folks,
With
It’s
Obscure,
Inside
Jokes.
Most
Prefer
To
Fade
Away
From
Emotional
Word
Play.
The
Form
Is
A
Distillation,
A
Verbal
Creation,
A
Sequential
Game
In
Which
To
Name
A
Delicate
Thought.
Either
It’s
Too
Intimate
To
Bear,
Or
They
Just
Don’t
Care.
I ought
To
Relent,
Be
Silent
And
Hide
These
Pages
On
Which
I say
What
Takes
My
Heart
Away,
Perhaps
To
Be
Read
After
I am
Dead.
Or
Not,
I can
Only
Give
What
I’ve
Got.
Like
Scribblers
Of
The
Past,
I hope
Some
Humble
Insight
Will
Last,
And
My
Song
Is
Passed
Along.

Here

11/23/2015

Here 2

The
Lawn
Assumes
The
New
Made
Palomino
Shade
Winter
Brings.
Orange
Elm
Leaves
Cling,
Then
Fall,
And
Soon
Cover
All.
The
Gaunt
Tree,
Now
Stark
Tendon
And
Bone,
Stands
Alone.
The
Seed
Sleeps,
Buried
Deep,
And
The
Bud
Will
Form,
To
Burst
Forth
When
It’s
Again
Warm.

Emergency

11/21/2015

Emergency

What
Shall
We
Do
When
The
World
Ends,
My
Friends?
The
World
Of
Yesterday,
Now
Being
Stolen
Away,
As
Every
Man
Becomes
A
Stranger,
Every
Gathering
A
Danger?
Religious
Error
Cannot
Excuse
Armed
Terror,
No
Belief
Should
Cause
Others
Grief.
What
Lapse
Has
Led
To
This
Collapse,
And
Willful
Destruction
Of
The
Past?
The
Politics
Of
You
And
Me,
And
Everyone
Who
Didn’t
See
That,
Unchecked,
Evil
Pries
Open
Freedoms
Gate,
And
Lets
In
Hate.

Rush Hour

11/19/2015

Rush Hour

A
Touch
Of
Autumn
Orange
At
The
Throat
Adds
A
Grace
Note
To
Her
Every
Day
Coat
Of
Brown
And
Gray.
She
Hurries
Past
Me
With
Great
Intent,
Already
Bent
To
The
Fray,
A
Sparrow
Among
Sparrows
On
The
Way
To
Another
Work
Day,
With
No
Time
To
Play.

Recruit

11/17/2015

Recruit

Mu’sad
Didn’t
Want
To
Live.
Paradise
Called,
And
He
Was
Enthralled.
Poor
And
Homely,
Shunned,
Ignorant,
Lost,
He
Would
Pay
The
Cost
Of
Admission
And
Enhance
His
Position
With
An
Avenging
Allah
He
Chose
To
Follow.
Impotent
Alone,
He
Made
A
Bomb
Of
Sticks
And
Stones,
Designed
To
Break
The
Bones
Of
Infidels
Who
Didn’t
Matter,
And
Lift
His
Emptiness
To
Glory.
An
Old
Story,
Futile
And
Gory,
How
In
A
Breath,
This
Fool
Could
Cause
Mindless
Death,
Seeking
Fame
With
A
God
Who
Never
Knew
His
Name.

Tristesse

11/15/2015

*Manet*

Tristesse

Words
Catch
In
My
Throat,
And
I cross
Out
What
I just
Wrote.
Pretty
Paris,
City
Of
Art
And
Grace,
Struck
In
The
Face
Without
Pity
By
Godcrazed
Scum
Who
Then
Blow
Themselves
To
Some
Imagined
Kingdom
Come.
Behind
The
Masks
And
Black
Clothes,
No
Human
Soul
Can
Repose.
If
There
Is
An
Allah,
Then
There
Is
A
Hell,
And
That’s
Where
They
Will
Forever
Dwell.

Mid-November

11/13/2015

Mid-November

Hard
Frost
In
The
Night
Fells
The
Leaf.
Thief
Winter
Robs
The
Trees
Of
Shadow
And
Shade
Summer
Made,
And
Today,
Alas,
Forms
A
Forlorn
Carpet
On
The
Grass.

Painter

11/11/2015

Painter

The
Old
Artist
Has
Grown
Grey,
His Face
Is
Distracted,
His
Body
Contracted,
And
He
Ponders
When
This
Decline
Was
Enacted.
How
Could
Fair
Youth
Decay,
And
Leave
Him
As
He
Is
Today?
He
Takes
His
Food
With
A
Runcible
Spoon,
His
Mind
Astray
And
Empty
As
The
Moon.
Silence
Defines
His
Mood,
But
Defiance
And
Wit
Make
Him
Fit
To
Deal
With
It.
Shall
He
Use
His
Remaining
Power
To
Hasten
The
Final
Hour,
Turn
The
Page
And
Defy
Further
Age?
Or
Hold
Onto
Life,
Just
As
He
Ought,
Waiting
For
An
Illuminating
Thought?
Death
Will
Always
Win,
But
Not
In
A
Rush.
Until
Then,
He
Will
Rise
And
Once
Again,
Take
Up
His
Brush.