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 *Chiura Obata* The Road Ahead Yellow
Lights In Empty Rooms, The Roadway Moist In The Twilight Gloom, Triangle Of Park Dim Under Starshine, None Of Those Rooms Mine. This Town, This Space, Soon Gone, I travel On.
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 *Fear* 30" H X 36" W Oil On Linen Where
Was I when The Bomb Dropped, When The Blow Fell, When The Mist Came, When The Water Rose, When The Lights Went Out, When The Last Shout Was Raised, When Avarice And Violence Were Praised, When Every Shadow Became Fear? I was Here, You Bureaucratic Ass, Right Here, With Nothing Left To Do, And Where Were You?  *Willem de Kooning* Where
Is The Consolation For Lack Of Artistic Stimulation? When Your Muse Is Off On A Cruise, Your Personal Angel Has Fallen From Grace And You Can’t Recall The Face Of Success Since All Your Work Is A Hot Mess? If I knew, I would Tell You So. When You Find Out, Please Let Me Know.  *Giorgione* The Impassioned Singer I see
Him Singing Once Again, Before It All Began To Begin. He Had A Way Of Turning Tears To Song, Of Making Every Listener Hear Passion Crystal Clear In Every Note That Rose Aloft. Back Then, When His Eyes Were So Soft, So Soft, And We Were Sure It Would All Stay Pure.  He
Collected Words Like Rare Coins, Bright And Fair, Ideas Drawn From The Air, All The Lacunae Of The Every Day, Until He Had Enough To Really, Truly, Accurately, Say Exactly What It Meant To Have Lived So Long In His Distinctive, Bohemian Way. Wrote It All Down In A Hefty Book, Invited The World To Take A Look, Then Died, Before Anyone Knew The Dreamer Had Artfully Lied.  *Digital Art Poster* Though
I appear To Solidly Stand, I’m Slowing Sliding Down The Mountain Side To The Rio Grande. This Plays The Very Devil With My Feng Shui, But Better Make Way. My Store Room Is Jammed With A Life’s Work, And I play Clerk To Years Of Written Prose And I can’t Keep The Steep Angle Of My Repose. It’s All Sledding Down The Hill With Me, In An Avalanche Of Choice And Chance, To The Muddy River And Infinity.  *Relic 2* 30" H X 24" W Acrylic On Canvas Piecing
Together Yesterday, A Form Of Psychological Play, Bound To End In Fragments And Misplaced Sentiments, Gaps When Memory Faltered And Altered Who, What, And Somewhere, Lost The Missing Self, Now No Longer There.  *Autumn In New York* 20" X 16" Acrylic On Canvas September
Came Today, To Slowly Steal Summer Away With A Windy Frown, Pulling Leaves Down, Warning That One Day Coming Frost Will Cast Humming Crystals Chill On Crisp Air And Autumn, In Her Bright Slip, Soon Caught In Winter’s Icy Grip, Will Let The Brief Season Slide, And Allow Precious Warmth To Hide Below Ground Until Spring Comes Round.  *Woman In Wood* 40" H X 30" W Acrylic On Canvas In
Fact, I keep My Hopes Intact Reflecting On Those Who Reached The State Of Doing, Being, Truly Great In Events Handed Them By Fate. As For Me, I stumble Every Day In Some Humble, Tiresome, Way, But When I fall, Tell The Devil I gave My All.  *Three Apples* Acrylic On Canvas 16" H X 20" W Although
It Is Hot And Sunny Every Day, The Soft Fruits Of Summer Have Slipped Away. Peaches, Cherries, And Plums Succumb, And The Choices Grow Thin At The Season’s End. Then It’s Apples, As I grapple With Summer’s Loss, September Soon To Be Nature’s Boss. |
AuthorJeanette Collins Archives
May 2019
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