Frozen beauty
breathtakingly
preserved in his
running watercolour,
rough charcoal,
faded photograph film,
A beauty forevermore-
stilled yet alive.

for Joscephine Gomez

I quietly closed the door behind me and stepped inside
Where several souls had preceded me.

    A painter stood by her easel by the south door,
    There was a poet seated at her desk.
    A Buddhist scholar stood before an open tome
    and a lyric soprano softly hummed her warm up patterns.

Just then another soul entered the room and asked,
“Who are these people and how did they get here.”

I answered, “they are all called Joscephine
    and they have come from the stars
    bearing gifts to heal us, encourage us
    and light our ways with kindness and wisdom.

Color the sky with cerulean blue.
Know in your heart it will be true.
Paint the clouds titanium white.
Use indigo to pigment the night.
Oh, painter, your palette is as sharp as your knife.
May it guide you towards vibrancy all of your life.

I didn't want to sit and pose for you
I didn't want you to paint me
For all that I was in that brief moment
I was not enough yet then
And I had no desire to be your muse
I was sitting right in front of you
Eyes begging you to keep me forever
At the table next to you
On the other side of the couch
Or to the right of you while you sleep
I don't want to be hung on the wall
Not touched for months at a time
Something you passively think about
While I'm left out to dry
What a cruel thing to do to someone
The glass pedestal you put me on
Cut me when I fell from it
Will you paint that too?

I look... empty, gray
and before that, crowds were peeked in

Everyone laughs, smiles
and my empty painting presses me against the wall without a moment's thought

I see someone painting my picture frames
With a different brush than the grave, the altar

He paints with words, good deeds
The image becomes something different from the gray and half-world reverie

He is a painter, a painter of my life's painting.

It's a nice day in Paris,
A chilly afternoon.
At a tourist cafe,
With an Italian Painter,
Chatting about the French language.
"Why would you write about Dan's Amour?"
"What do you mean?"
"Well it's Dan's thing, seems personal to him."
"No, no, I wrote about dans amour."
"Yes that's what I said, Dan's Amour!"
Sigh

In her eyes I was glowing
She thought I was a rare find
A diamond in the rough—
No, I am moissanite.

I am never that grand,
Even a thousand painters
Couldn't paint me as they can't
Get inspired with my abstract self.

It would be better to wonder
From a far like looking at that cool car,
Let it not be known
That it is lacking in parts.

The landscape forces

me to put it on canvas --


and then it won't work.