"fresco" poems
Venezia, its musical key of brick and shade
And the canals in rejoining polyphony
Sweeten the dour Church-ear.
From the impasto knife and loose brushwork,
A thumb-smear of waves and gently-bristled strife
Rise to assumption of the cloud-submerged bay,
Mural of cristallo, only-light without landscape,
Made too from the winds of Murano,
Its clayed blowpipe of waterways molding
The lagoon of blown glass and bouquet of colored sea-shadows.
The Tiber lies on its side, like the lion and fox,
Licking its paws at empire’s dust,
A drifting gaze of water that already foresees
The swift-run northward to Romagna,
Where the veined fur of the roe will succumb…
A ripple twitches like one dark claw of the Borgia…
The watercolors of the Arno are a fresco
On the wet plaster of the lips of Firenze, Tuscan fire-dream.
Or like the warring leg in curve of counterpoise,
Sprung foot-forward to the daring world
And arm slung down in stone-victory
From this valley, too much like Elah,
With taunting eyes turned from the Medici toward Rome.
May 13, 2019
May 13, 2019 at 10:06 AM UTC
The bright sun’s rays
Are dappled as they strike
The manicured greensward.
He, tall, lithe, teeth all aglow
In cream slacks and pastel blouson,
She, fair and fairylike in acres of shimmering gauze,
Alight from the auto
At the site of their ‘manger al fresco’
Let us call them Justin and Jocelyn.
The basket is heavy
No matter.
He lifts it clear to carry
She gasps, he grins.
In minutes the scene is set
The rug, the plates, the glasses
The pate, the cold chicken,
The fruit….the wine.
He deflowers a bottle of Moselle,
Wishing it were her.
Guessing as much she blushes.
Ants retreat to nests
Wasps attack alternate targets
Flies zoom elsewhere to feed.
And all the while the sun
The golden sun continues to dapple.
The rain is not quite horizontal
As Joe and Judy
Run from the bus stop
To the stony beach.
Not quite horizontal
But driven off the sea it tastes salty.
He, ordinary, average, in a dampening grey mackintosh.
She, hair bleached in a sister’s frock and jacket
Holding hands,
And hold each a sandwich
Cellophane wrapped.
Squatting against the seawall
They eat.
Wet eyes flash bright signals.
Joe has a small thermos
Its vegetable soup,
And somehow a hardboiled egg appears,
To share.
The rain continues its attack.
Jul 25, 2014
Jul 25, 2014 at 11:58 PM UTC
Piano and guitar playing light songs
soft tape, fresh rain, streets oblique
christmas lights on her walls like she
lives in a dorm, eucalyptus smelling
fresco paintings with 666s on them
bring on the full Fall, dim cars
outside and their alarms or engines
in the pause of our sleepy conversations
we go in deep when we’re satisfied with
the noise we’ve made
Oct 16, 2018
Oct 16, 2018 at 2:48 PM UTC
She walked out of the watercolor storm of a fresco
Like a cowl-bound form in a light drizzle of rain,
Her mosaic tiles of ancient lovers’ eyes, ceramic-borne,
Just as her hips held the curves of the urn, kiln-fired,
The coiled heat of Greece still stinging through her flesh.
For her, the treetops had been the summoners of storm,
In kind, she poured down the wet grove of her hair, electral,
Pantheress of humid breath and fanged flair of lightning,
Tamed once in the cloudy cage of Pentelic marble of the Parthenon.
But the world piled dust before her, baiting with its groveled roads,
For her black mullings, much-tasted rain, and heaven’s leaves to fall.
If only the Michelango-to-come had carved the clouds of her
For the light to remain, shining its centuries,
Then maybe the thunder would have been left undone.
Sep 5, 2019
Sep 5, 2019 at 2:17 PM UTC
Spanish
El ancla de oro canta…la vela azul asciende
Como el ala de un sueño abierta al nuevo día.
Partamos, musa mía!
Ante lo prora alegre un bello mar se extiende.
En el oriente claro como un cristal, esplende
El fanal sonrosado de Aurora. Fantasía
Estrena un raro traje lleno de pedrería
para vagar brillante por las olas.
Ya tiende
La vela azul a Eolo su oriflama de raso…
El momento supremo!…Yo me estremezco; acaso
Sueño lo que me aguarda en los mundos no vistos!…
Acaso un fresco ramo de laureles fragantes,
El toison reluciente, el cetro de diamantes,
El naufragio o la eterna corona de los Cristos?…
English
The golden anchor beckons, the blue sail rises
Like the wing of a dream unfolding to a new day.
Let us depart, my muse!
Beyond an anxious prow, the sea stretches itself out.
In the crystal clear East, Aurora's
Blushed beacon shines. Fantasy
Is donning a rare garment of gems
To wander brilliantly over the waves.
The blue sail
Unfolds its private oriflamme to ******
The supreme moment!…I tremble: do I know–
Oh God!–what awaits me in unseen worlds?
Perhaps a freshly picked bouquet of fragrant laurels,
The golden fleece, a diamond scepter,
A shipwreck, or the eternal crown of the Anointed Ones?…
3.2k
The rosy-green flight
Of hills and ramps
Blurred in twilight
By a soft lamp
Golden valleys darken
Red in the breeze
Small birds harken
In headless trees
The sadness fades
In my mind’s medium
These autumn shades
Shatter the sky’s tedium
Apr 6, 2015
Apr 6, 2015 at 8:48 AM UTC
The Butler Model of Tourism
I come back year after year
cracked black valise, busted zipper
spring-shot lobby divans drained of color,
to press crisp bills into Monte’s hand
come up for air from the tortoise shell
of his thread bare uniform, ease myself
down on a sagging mattress
wait for the clatter of ancient bones
his creaking cart and shuffling feet
to recede into absolute silence down
the dimly lit hall, broken only by a spate
of conversation between the couple
I can just make out in the water
stained fresco above the bed
two of them lost in a heated row
as if I couldn’t hear their bald appraisals
shockingly frank in this flocked walled room
with musty corners and milky windows
disagreeing only on the degree of my
progression through the dismal stages of
“The Butler Model of Tourism”
him making a half-hearted case for
Rejuvenation, the woman straddling
the thin line between Stagnation and Decline.
Sep 24, 2016
Sep 24, 2016 at 9:47 AM UTC
Dopo tanta
nebbia
a una
a una
si svelano
le stelle.
Respiro
il fresco
che mi lascia
il colore
del cielo.
2.4k
At night we were a fresco
painted by an astronaut, our
messy bed the chapel of a
voyeuristic God, where glory
worked with hurried hands
in frenzied fellowship and
hallelujah was a sigh that
quivered on my lips, then we
nodded off like angels of our
own apocalypse; it was made-up
love, when we woke up,
the dreamed up stuff of kids.
Jan 19, 2016
Jan 19, 2016 at 8:30 PM UTC
Succulent, meaty, ribs falling off the bone and drenched in a velvety, thick, sauce.
“Check please.”
Tender chunks of lobster tail bathed in sweet, drawn, butter.
“Thank you. That will be all.
Heavy, cream-coated, strands of fettuccine accompanied by fresh peas, Speck, and shaved Parmesan.
“I wish I could stay but I can’t.”
Filet. Rare. A veil of Roquefort and sautéed wild mushrooms in a Sauternes reduction.
“It's just not the right time.”
Perfectly seasoned carne asada with a creamy roasted poblano sauce, queso fresco and the cool, half-mooned, sultry innards of a Hass avocado.
“I'll call you tomorrow”
A decadent Kobe burger blanketed in cheeses, caramelized onions, crisp bacon, and a cap of unctuous foie grois.
“But thank you for everything.”
Peanut butter and jelly on white bread.
And you would have me forever.
Jul 17, 2011
Jul 17, 2011 at 4:42 PM UTC
I’m thinking about the doctor's hands shaking as she
struggles to intubate a cat.
I’m thinking about the technician's hands squeezing the cat’s rib cage,
pulsing life with a delicate force; she is much more gentle than
practitioners are with humans—
hard and quick down with the palms; the ribs snapping,
the sternum sore.
Some time ago an 80-year-old woman on my unit was
opened up bedside for a cardiac procedure during a code.
After a week in ICU, she came back to us on the unit, was up and
walking and talking, and was discharged home within another week.
Meanwhile, the 60-year-old man was dead in the morgue
after a 45-minute code failed to resuscitate him.
The flip of the coin. The thin line. The blessing or the curse.
The absolute darkness of a body bag. The cold chill of absolute zero.
The fresco painted on the catacomb walls could either depict the
light of the sun or the multicolored lights that the
brain shoots off minutes before death.
The eleventh hour,
isn’t that what it’s called?
We don’t want to talk about body care, death care.
We have to, but it won’t register.
After a loss, after a trauma,
we are on autopilot.
I think of my mother,
six feet beneath frozen soil in
a pink padded casket and think:
I don’t want that.
I think of the prearranged plots my grandparents picked out
next to her in an above ground crypt and think:
I don’t want that.
Bacteria still causes decay after the embalming process.
Putrefied flesh. Bones visible. Muscles eaten. Tissues disintegrated.
We don’t talk about it.
We try to think the opposite. The positive vs the negative.
(But that’s not always possible or healthy.)
I’m thinking about hands inserting IVs, hands taking
blood pressures, hands documenting the code notes
on a clipboard in the back of the room.
I couldn’t do these things.
My hands tend to break what they touch.
The glass bowl in the pet store.
The clay project in art class.
The succulents, the basil, the orchid.
I’m good at things I don’t have to think about:
good at the autopilot, good at the autonomic,
good at trauma.
Nov 19, 2020
Nov 19, 2020 at 2:47 AM UTC
THE DANGERS OF READING FLAUBERT....AL FRESCO!
( for Ray )
"Souvent la chaleur d’un beau jour..."
he reads, stops:
kisses her.
" ...Fait rêver fillette à l’amour."
she completes the words
kisses...kisses him.
Dining al fresco
feeling somewhat frisky
they throw caution
to the wind
soon all too soon
Flaubert forgotten
Madame Bovary
discarded on the grass
soon all too soon
even the food forgotten
clothing of both
male and female attire
discarded on the grass
now nothing but gasps
they each
the other's feast
the wind idly turning
Bovary's pages
skipping to the end then
beginning again
until one last ***** gusty
breeze interrupts their play
chasing their clothes
that run away
his boxers hang now
upon the bough
her pink camiknickers..pale pink bra
making a run for it
laughingly they chase
their clothes
this Adam and his Eve
bra floating tits-up
in a pond
the camiknickers never
alas to be found.
And here now on their
50th
they share the same smile
when asked how it was
they came together
remembering their love making
in windy weather
shyly slyly blame
Flaubert
" Il souffla bien fort ce jour-là,
Et le jupon court s’envola."
Jan 9, 2018
Jan 9, 2018 at 12:22 PM UTC
La calle
se llenó de tomates,
mediodía,
verano,
la luz
se parte
en dos
mitades
de tomate,
corre
por las calles
el jugo.
En diciembre
se desata
el tomate,
invade
las cocinas,
entra por los almuerzos,
se sienta
reposado
en los aparadores,
entre los vasos,
las mantequilleras,
los saleros azules.
Tiene
luz propia,
majestad benigna.
Debemos, por desgracia,
asesinarlo:
se hunde
el cuchillo
en su pulpa viviente,
es una roja
víscera,
un sol
fresco,
profundo,
inagotable,
llena las ensaladas
de Chile,
se casa alegremente
con la clara cebolla,
y para celebrarlo
se deja
caer
aceite,
hijo
esencial del olivo,
sobre sus hemisferios entreabiertos,
agrega
la pimienta
su fragancia,
la sal su magnetismo:
son las bodas
del día,
el perejil
levanta
banderines,
las papas
hierven vigorosamente,
el asado
golpea
con su aroma
en la puerta,
es hora!
vamos!
y sobre
la mesa, en la cintura
del verano,
el tomate,
astro de tierra,
estrella
repetida
y fecunda,
nos muestra
sus circunvoluciones,
sus canales,
la insigne plenitud
y la abundancia
sin hueso,
sin coraza,
sin escamas ni espinas,
nos entrega
el regalo
de su color fogoso
y la totalidad de su frescura.
1.9k
I found you hiding in your painting
I distinctly remember saying
that you reminded me of Monet
Beautiful without trying
Elegant Simplicity
You said I was like Seurat
Up close a jumble of emotions and thoughts
that seemed to contrast, but then all made
sense when you took me in as a whole
That night, we drank our fill
we danced under the fresco moonlight
Our colors bled together as our lines,
boundaries, and vision blurred
Perfect Chaos. Dali would have approved.
But..your lips. Those perfect lips
dripping
in crimson red oil
contrasting pastel skin
remained crisp and vivid in my memories
They left their mark on my canvas
A smile beckoning, drawing me
That night, so long ago...
We painted a masterpiece
Sep 6, 2012
Sep 6, 2012 at 10:55 PM UTC
Fascist fascist
Fascinating
Liberating or degrading
Hangs from single strings
Nothing comes and no one sings
No one laughs and nothing breaks
See the cracks drip down my face
Fascist fascist
Fascinating
Fascinating fascist face
Flash-forward foreshadow
White cold lace
Not as durable as we first thought
But the car is packed
In the parking lot
I light the cigarettes we bought
And now there is no going back
Not back to there
Nor back to that
Not back to night
Nor back to day
Nor back to summers
Far away
Fascist fascist
Fascinating
Forget my fascist family tree
The fascist fascist memory
And moustache moustache damaging
Or fresco firefly reverie
Just tell me that I’m yours
Sign the line
Like you have before
This is where we are right now
Two souls alive
In the empty town
Two souls alive
In the ********* ghost god-empty town.
So, What think you of Whitman?
And what say I of Plath?
I understand all but maybe half
On my greatest finest day
(dearest, how’d we get this way?)
How’d we fall so far from grace?
How’d this canyon split my face?
Maybe it’s the trace trace amounts of fascist.
Fascist fascist
Fascinating
Friday fickle convocating
Tragic talent intubating
All the world smiles, undulating
But in the end
You’re still a fascist.
Jun 3, 2015
Jun 3, 2015 at 7:05 PM UTC
Loneliness is a sketchwork of pen and ink of iron gall,
Brushed over in brown wash of wood soot from oak,
Disguised then under tempera of golden-ratio of yolk,
Flared over with fiery oils to the smoke-blurred brink, sfumato,
Or pigment of the fresco, a shade of off-life, languid as watercolor,
Or from the too-fondly-felt impasto knife.
But bares its bones in the light-dark cleft of Caravaggio,
With diminutions of death and the storm’s dark imbroglio,
And sunlight as flesh made into soul,
The skin stretched whole around the world.
Each sky is just a sketch
Of loneliness, left unsigned,
By every hand.
Jul 4, 2019
Jul 4, 2019 at 10:11 PM UTC
Pan dulce se sienta en un plato de pastelería en mi cocina
Rara vez tocado, pero siempre admirado
Fresco y colorido y lleno de variedad.
Los panes delicados quedan sin comer
Todavía los compro como recordatorio de
Mi familia en otra tierra a un mundo de distancia
Parece más cercano cuando estoy rodeado por el sabor, los olores y las texturas de la casa de mi padre biológico.
Mi Familia
Mi casa en Mexico
Mar 15, 2021
Mar 15, 2021 at 11:05 PM UTC
Hace un mes que te dije
No podía esperarte más.
Y el abismo entre nosotros
tragó: las plumas, los sonidos,
y la lengua que querría cantar.
Eras un pájaro con ojos cerrados.
Las alas de mi mente
Golpeaban el aire tranquilo
Dónde no podía encontrarte
Sino tu canción vacía sin amor.
Me encuentro a mí mismo
En el campo: me siento muy seca
y sola pero sabia.
Siempre me llevaban las alas
Al norte, afuera, al norte
Donde oigo la canción de mi pueblo,
De la gente que no me ha dejado
Por nada, aunque llueve.
Hace un mes que me dio cuenta
De otra forma de ser, cercano.
Me ha tocado como las suspiras
Del árbol que tiene hojas
con la riqueza de los ojos cafés
del chico distinto aquí:
Mirándome, hasta que debo salir.
Otra vez salgo con las alas
Afuera de lo que conozco
Porque, como un pájaro del otoño,
El viento fresco me hacen una seña
que yo debería olvidarme las hojas y los ojos
porque ellos se caen siempre
de los árboles a la tierra dura:
Mirándome, hasta que te caes también.
Oct 17, 2012
Oct 17, 2012 at 1:42 AM UTC
*Lips touched
passion sought
standing still listening
to our hearts, wanting so much
the others lives, so we will ever fall
drinking our fill of our dearest hearts
and then we must part, the pain we feel.....
That moment our lips wrote poetry
on the canvas of our hearts
from our eyes to kisses,
are a must, wanting
our passion
to the
fullest...*
________
**The work of art that we created
Was not an outline,
On the roof of the heart’s cathedral
It was a breathtaking fresco
Painted centuries ago
By Michelangelo.
If ever you feel sad and lonely
Just reach up and let
Your fingers roam free,
You’ll trace the contours
Of your and my mind
Kept alive by that
Pulsating heart…**
Sep 16, 2014
Sep 16, 2014 at 12:44 PM UTC
Bus de las 8:00, 8:04. Sol en la ventana, camino de adoquín, irregular, vías trizadas de cotidianidad; luz roja, luz verde, la amarilla no funciona, acelera, quema el neumático, 10, 20, 40, 50 y frena de golpe.
Vista a la ciudad, azul, sin nubes y seca; te incorporas al bajar, la montaña se humedece, también la ciudad. Av. Amazonas, CCI, Av. La Prensa. Abordas das vueltas te sientas, "tome sin compromiso, $1" sino me devuelve, 10, 20, 40, 50 y frena nunca en la parada. "Soy de Ibarra mi hijo en el hospital Baca Ortiz", frena bajas, viejas pisadas.
Haces fila, pagas, otra fila; firme aquí, no puede sonreír. "Espere 20 minutos", te sientas, turno WT64, WT65, WT66. "la niña no puede comer aquí" WT77, WT 78, WT79. Juan Arboleda, Gustavo Betancourt, José Efrén, Adrián Poveda; revise si está todo bien, firme aquí, sello, sello, queda registrado. Escalera eléctrica, salida, aire no fresco, "le emplástico", "le limpio", caminas, te detienes, ojeas, sueñas. Esperas, Chillogallo - Estadio, Camal - Hipódromo, ¿y el Batán - Colmena? ni modo al Cía. Nacional.
El bus va lento a penas atraviesa la brisa, el sol rebota en el parabrisas, Av. 10 de Agosto, acelera, acelera, frena, en la Av. Versalles el bus es un huracán, y frena, te bajas, tu decencia se queda y en la calle colonial vuelves a soñar, fotografía militar, vuelves a filtrar, 11:23, relojería, confitería parada de bus, fanático religioso, sonidos afro, plaza, museo, buenos días, árbol con hojas de otro árbol. "Pide un deseo y escribelo en un pedazo de papel".
Amor valiente, amor invisible, beso beso, no puedo aterrizar, sala 5, hombre en llamas, síndrome de resignación, refugiados, reflexión, cerveza, amor, amor, $13.60. Carne salteada, ají, limonada, besos, botella extraviada, agua.
Pequeño adiós, Marín, intento de robo, 25 ctvs, gente casas coloridas, montaña, subes, subes, das vueltas, valle azul y verde, baja, frena. Cash, salta se sacude, un torbellino de pelos, en la luz, en mi ropa, un torbellino de amor, pelota, pelota, rock n roll, cable, cable, pedal, camisa blanca, botas negras, peinado a lo morrisey, guitarra, vingala, Blues, Blues, saxo, taxi, maestro, bajo, guitarra, mente extraviada, extraviada, extraviada.
Nov 13, 2018
Nov 13, 2018 at 3:52 PM UTC
looked at you for too long
and then i realized
you are human, too
fallible
uncertain
flawed
piously pined for
palatial splendor i
placed in my dreams of you,
imperfect you
and it's no ones fault
a figure headed facade
fabricated by figments
of my frivolous imagination
put you on a pedestal
made you divine
made you holy
you, the ceiling
high above my head
and i, looking up
in the sistine chapel
untouchable
untarnished
couldn't see the cracks
beneath the varnish
then, close enough to study
a faint fresco with critical eyes
fantasy faded in the fault lines
of your frowning face
looked for too long
until i realized
you were just as broken as me
a collection of shattered pieces
shrouded and shy
once a shrine
now a shriek
wide eyes on you
a sinner, still
i called you sacred
ignoring the nature of
the irreverent, the profane
liked the luster
of longing lingering
on my lips
when i breathed your name
the veil torn
the truth beheld
and you are not god
gambling grief and
gleaming gloom
thought i could be
the sun to your moon
majesty to malignancy
momentarily merciful
moreover cruel
monstrous mr monsoon
after all, human, too
Jan 19, 2021
Jan 19, 2021 at 8:43 PM UTC
Lying cold and prone in corpescent repose
Stripped bare of all earthly clothes
No flattering gown or suitcoat fine
Nor soul from sightless eyes does shine
All cajolery and wisdom long since fled
Biles and humours and all machinery dead
The fresco of person in living years painted
With frowsty breath and ideas blood-tainted
Has, in joining this burgeoning army, crumbled
As cheek-rouge faded, the persona humbled:
Under wakeful eyes the snail is known by its shell
But the naked and the dead know each other well.
Jan 24, 2010
Jan 24, 2010 at 6:35 AM UTC
They said Keith couldn't *** without a finger up his ***
they said Ruth was a **** for not sleeping with her man.
They said George was a woman because he couldn't grow a beard,
they said Molly was autistic, because she was a little bit weird.
They said Mr. Winchester was a ********** because he wore an overcoat,
they said Ms. Wheeler as a witch, and once sacrificed a goat.
They said Mr. Winter was so fat, he was more or less bulletproof,
they said Ms. Walker was not attractive, but if it came to it:
she'd have to do.
They said Lucinda was thin because she chose not to eat,
sitting by the bathroom doors in the lunchtime canteen.
They said Leonard was a ****** with his long, blonde hair,
they said Luke was a downy because of his vacant stare.
They said Mr. Fresco was a drinker who beat his wife at home,
they said Ms. Finkel was a ********** seen standing out in the cold.
They said an awful lot of things that decayed away over time,
but it takes a strength to train the mind
to not trod the tracks of a lifetime past,
to keep yourself to who you are,
not those ancient words,
nor those faded scars.
Oct 29, 2015
Oct 29, 2015 at 1:50 PM UTC