delicately lay me down in dreams
wild flowers blooming in the sky
like they once did in your heart
paint me into scenes of monet waters
kissed by water lily wishes
like you once left upon my lips
lightly brush a soft breeze
through my raven hair
where your fingers once danced
here I long to drift in peace
wafting on pastel swirls and aerial sighs
like I once floated upon your breath
leave me now to delicately fade
into a scene of pure love
like we once had
I'm just another
That you pushed in a corner
Your weeping Monet
Lucid dreams of a place
That seems unfamiliar,
But it feels like home.
I perform a barefoot ballet,
Sinking my toes like anchors
Into the soil.
Orchids and sunflowers
Stand guard like soldiers, giving
An aroma as strong as gun smoke.
The wind whistles its tune
As the leaves tango, resembling
Lovers brushing fingertips.
I reminisce days where
The garden was the universe
And words came easy.
Today I am speechless and
Amazed by all this vast
World has shown me.
Inspired by Monet’s painting titled “The Artist’s Garden at Vètheuil”
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.
We are all museums
of anger and discontent
and we feel obligated to
show our artworks
to the world.
I awoke to a sunrise so beautiful
Monet himself dare not
Attempt to capture its beauty
People love Money,
and I love Monet.
(And no, it's not a typo,
I'm just being honest.)
I would't mind
I love Monet.