|
|
 *Garden In Rain* 8" H X 10" W Oil On Linen Today,
Heavy Rain Fell In A Stiff Breeze, Washed The Faces Of The Trees, And Brushed Away The Crust Of Desert Dust. Clouds Hide The Mountain Crest, More Rain Sweeping In From The West, As The Sun Takes A Sunday Rest.
0 Comments
 Men
Die Of Heart Attacks, Women Of The Blues, No Matter What Lifestyle They Choose, If They Exercise Or Smoke, Since Trying To Beat Death Is A Joke. I Don’t Jog, And Exist In A Sedentary Bog, But Hey, I’m In Good Shape Anyway. The Task? Be Cool Enough To Make It Last.  Setting
Out To Grasp The Whole, The Entire, The Source, Running Until We Expire, Cannot Pause, Never Stop, Because, Because. Must Eternally Try, Although We Forget Why. Time Is Rushing Toward Us, Climb Aboard, And Ride To The Nearest Star, Never Mind How Far.  *The Mexican Apples* 76" H X 36" W Oil On Linen This
Painting Hangs In My Hall, Too Tall To Easily Haul To Storage, And Anyway, Why Lock Her Up Again, She’s A Friend. Painted To Impress, In Hazardous Undress, At The Gallery It Hit Folks In The Chest And Didn’t Sell. You Never Can Tell. Alas, The Hallway Suits Her Very Well.  *Andre Kohn* Yesterday,
The Sun Went Away, The Sky Turned Deep Gray, And I Felt The Whole Town Strain, Please, Lord, Make It Rain. In An Hour, Down It Came, A Thunder Shower, Then A Deluge, Breaking Eighty Days Of Dry, A Blessing From The On High.  *Duy Huynh* Sitting
Outside In The Red Lawn Chair, I Looked For The Moon, But It Wasn’t There. A Thin Smear Of Cloud Blurred The Sky, Too High To Blow Away And Close This Hot June Day. As It Grows Dark, The Dog Begins To Bark, Answering Distant Canine Friends, And Quick As That, The Evening Ends.  I Used
To Own A Fine Mercedes Diesel, Bought Used From A Devious Russian Weasel. I Loved That Car Right Down To The Tires, And Drove It With Pride, A Really Great Ride. Later, I Winged It From NYC To SF, Hardly Taking A Breath, Cheating Death At 80 MPH All The Way, In Only A Couple Of Days. Oh, I Was A Menace, And Three Years Later, Sold That Sweetheart To My Dentist.  With
Each Passing Day, Memory Slides Away Beyond Our Reach. Music Is The Key That Opens The Lock, That Rewinds The Clock, And Allows Us To Again Feel What Is No Longer Real. Music, To Make You Shout, And Turn Your Soul Inside Out.  *David Rickert* When
The Moon Is On Its Side, We Will Ride Down The Mountainside To The Sea, Where Lovers We Will Be. As The Sun Climbs High, We’ll Say Goodbye, You To The Faraway, Me To The Everyday.  The
Tenor, Gaudy In Antique Clothes, Belts It Out, His Voice On Tiptoes, To Sing The Stunning Aria From Yesterday, And Steals My Heart Away. |
AuthorJeanette Collins Archives
March 2022
|
RSS Feed