On Modern Art

Art is in the eye of the beholder,
Modern art is especially troubling,
Since when anything goes, nothing matters,
When everyone's an artist, art is dead.

Splotches on paper art? Yes if you wish,
And so are vulvas rendered in a dish,
Mother of God submerged in dung and ****,
Men urinating in men's mouths is bliss.

Who are the arbiters of this grand farce?
Why art critics, of course, for they know best,
And we, the unwashed masses, must all yield,
Our sense to what their wisdom will reveal.

Filtered through their ego art is revealed,
Through platitudes delivered with great zeal.


Redemption

Even in lost souls,
Embers of goodness remain,
waiting to be stoked.

With a gentle nudge,
Our better natures can rise,
Purified, renewed.

We can save ourselves,
Make amends for our mistakes,
Choose a wiser path.


The two poems above are inspired by two short stories from my Echoes of the Mind's Eye collection.