Three poplars grow along the river bank, Three poplars reflected in the current, Past is paint and the future is a blank Canvas framed with poplar wood recurrent, Reeds sway silently, Tree trunks climb crooked, Colors blur like smoky clouds unfurling Colors blurring cloudy smoke rings spread Across a pastel sky. Autumnal swirl in kingly golden glow—presages: Brush be quick / the sun dips / the light changes Capture it before it rearranges!
Inspired by Claude Monet's painting Poplars (Autumn) from 1891.
As fog covered my outside landscape I sat, relaxing and aligning with poetic ideas to scribe at later date.
The air was warm, as a faint scent of lavender entered nostrils. My human eyes couldn't make out anything more than a shadow but; my inner senses knew I wasn’t alone.
The being whispered adding fog to the room. With deepen breath it now made sense of my visitor recalling my art background. Remembering, my prayer just days earlier how I longed for a great maters of art to flow through me.
As moments passed, the blur became more distinct. There he stood before me adorned with painters hat and smock. With a smile as he held up a brush and made like he was painting my form.
I giggled with air of breeze. My third eye exploded with an image of Monet. He began to fill my mind with picturesque visions. Flowers entered my eyes as I felt a creative power serge. Fields of afternoon strollers adorned with paroles entered mind. And birds rustled in trees, as a flowing brook traveled within.
More scenes manifested. I could almost taste the sweet air running down my throat. When I was filled to capacity, he stopped and I understood. He was providing me with fuel for thought. Scenes to transcribe into poetic jargon.
As he bowed, and I whispered gratitude, he disappeared. I was again alone with my keyboard, dancing hands and vivid imagination tweaked with his talented light.
I now was ready to create on canvas screen and of course my new curator of verse, Monet.
Here is something different. Was thinking of Monet all day today so my story unfolded in mind.
Lichtenstein crashed into Monet's garden under the mistaken impression that a pulse of pop would compliment the oil on water, but instead his WHAAM missed its target and his POW wept hot, bleaching the aqua white with noise and ripping the lilies to shreds. 'Oh, Claude,' he cried, 'it's a masterpiece!'
Prompted by a friend's painting which looked just like this.