Money melting in a spoon,
let's shoot it into our veins.
Flashing Kardashian lights,
streaming into our brains.
Donald Trump! He's our man!
Mark Muslims is the plan!

All-you-can-eat-
Pile. It. The. ****. High.
When you walk or
When you talk,
let the words squeak out
like they're between
Your thighs.

Thighs. American thighs,
Dreaming next to our Calvins.
Our slacktivism, our regurgitated ideas
spitballing out of our McDonald's mouths
into our peers' ears, distilled by years
And years of "almost-knowledge"
that we quasi-ascertained,
if we knew what that meant --
but we've been left behind!
No child left the **** behind!
We were left behind and there's no
possible way we slacked off, that we're dumb,
that we aren't the movie stars destined for
Lamborghini cars, five-star bars, designer bodies
for designer you and designer me:
the most special of the unique, the
Pearls that have been made in the
darkest parts of the sea, the darkest parts of
origin. Origin. ******. ****.
American ****: virginal ideals sliding around
the muck of a marketable ****, fuckfest,
******* of the American mind, the
congratulations of the American ego,
the proud mother and father tears associated with
buying and lying, "trying" and frying our food,
our ideas, our friends, our neo-impressionistic
children in Jordans, skinny jeans, on tumblr:
the unknowing cousin of Fox News, surprised
by its own wit and wisdom: they're ******* twins.
Carbon copies, unknowing, unwilling, un-un-un.

The romanticism of mental illness.
The close-up of reality-tv emotion.
The manipulation taught to servers
from managers.
The manipulation taught to customers
from society.

All we care about is ****, image, and ***.
Self-preservation: **** Donald Trump
and *******.

at first an unrelenting green covers everything:
the trees, the lawn, the hillsides, the marshes, the windbreaks,
everything is completely and totally green, the deepest, truest green,
so green you might even forget that it wasn't always green,
so green you might not stop to think that it won't always be green.
school children look out windows during their exams,
longing to be free amid all that greenness,
lovers sit in parks near the water, under perfectly green leaves,
listening to the wind, watching the stars come out
and making their wishes, forever joined with that unrelenting green.
artists dip their impressionistic brushes in the green and dab on canvas
pictures of people gathered at picnics in dappled, green shade,
joined with the greenness, enveloped and absorbed by it,
becoming green themselves. they paint pictures of leafy trees reaching beyond the canvas with patches of sky showing through, a perspective of endless summer that you have to look at a long time
to see and feel, but once you find it beyond the greenness, in the
blue beyond the hill, you will be part of it always: through the fading mid-summer and pale, yellowing late summer, even into the multi-
colored fall and the stark, grey-white winter, and you will know life, and hope and love,  and nothing will ever seem the same again

Your droopy eyes are palpable
But their leakage is  so very  liquid
That everything  from your frown and down
are only streaks of monochrome colours.

The shine from your bottom lip’s pout  
Is the sole indication of any protuberance
In between the  misty, misplaced  smudges
And  now I’ve gone and lost your focal point.

Your wilted close is tangible
But the reasoning is  so volatile
That I’m unsure of Where the dead must head
And whether *** just simply is a sin.

The parameters are but blurred
And lead to a dissipated bit of an apex
Among smears of arrogant  ignorance
And now I’ve gone and belittled your focal point.

But what is it, exactly, that you wanted to make an impression of?

when i get lost
i find myself

in the most various of places
as the echo of my paces
reach outer spaces
i delve inward

like the whirlpool
at the center of a ripple
touching the banks of the pond
and defining itself by them
i am
utterly interdependent
externally anchored
and implicitly bound
to the web of meaning
spun around me
and when you found me
lost
in the most various of places
as the echo of my paces
reached outer spaces
i delved inward

and i found me,
my lost self,
all around me
in everyone
and everything else

(it astounds me
how the pronoun 'he'
implies that
which surrounds the
not-so-isolated subject.)

so when i found 'me'
lost
in the most various of places
as the echo of my paces
reached outer spaces
i delved inward.

i delved inward
and saw outward
myself
a shard of glass
reflecting and refracting
the light bouncing
between so many shards of glass
and i shattered

and i dissolved
and i splattered
so many dots of paint
in an impressionistic painting
that got smudged
and delved inward.

so when you found me
lost
in the most various of places
the echo of my paces
reached outer spaces.

and when i
delved inward
i found myself
outside myself.
like the whirlpool
at the center of a ripple.

Aye, Montecelli, that's the name.
You may have heard of him perhaps.
Yet though he never savoured fame,
Of those impressionistic chaps,
Monet and Manet and Renoir
He was the avatar.

He festered in a Marseilles slum,
A starving genius, god-inspired.
You'd take him for a lousy ***,
Tho' poetry of paint he lyred,
In dreamy pastels each a gem: . . .
How people laughed at them!

He peddled paint from bar to bar;
From sordid rags a jewel shone,
A glow of joy and colour far
From filth of fortune woe-begone.
'Just twenty francs,' he shyly said,
'To take me drunk to bed.'

Of Van Gogh and Cezanne a peer;
In dreams of ecstasy enskied,
A genius and a pioneer,
Poor, paralysed and mad he died:
Yet by all who hold Beauty dear
May he be glorified!

There is no floor
Below the water there is sand and dust
My feet disappear below the mist
And below that is a floor of nothing.

Lock and key, relative conductivity
Separation of anxieties
Generally elementary
Universal energy
Scientific inquiry
Empirical discovery

What a bunch of crap.

I bathe in fake white plastic
I swim in silent smiles
Dionysian warfare paintings
Classical textual narrating

Fitness, happiness, soporific movies
Genial tendencies, braced for ingenuity
Waiting for a paroxysm to bring forth neologisms
That test the boundaries of scientific truth
That recapture the errant minds of youth
We could make new buildings or lose a tooth

I hold the latter higher than that
I tilt the ladder there and back
Assiduous and wont, *** for tat
All a game, a joke at that
Your domain, provoked and trapped
Impressionistic spinal taps
On canvases of green and black
All from within cerebral shacks

Wind hammers palm trees on windowpanes
Wind tears down houses, rips apart planes
Wind doesn't move me, yet seems urbane
It's so jejune, it's all the same
I'm tired and lonely, powder remains
Pink like reagents in reactive flames
Quick like catalysts jumping inane
Frontal lobes retired my brain.

mortality's taste is bittersweet
as death's brush paints life's new lease
impressionistic could haves, should haves, would haves
minimalist suprematism shapes dreams
surrealistic hopes
time's urgency hammered home by temporal clarity
top 10 lists glazed to topography
as future blends to present amid trees
a familiar CICU
a family gathering
beds with tubes and wires
monitors flashing and beeping
refreshing past's distance
with updated parking prices
will the ending be the same?

The great Green Mountains,
up where the tallest evergreens grow,
stretching,
upward an outward,
toward the heavens,
a perimeter of boundaries,
where white iridescent angels,
can drift,

Touching the clouds,
in winds of change coming,
gathered together sheltering storms,
alongside barren maples
and birches,
with shriveled others aging,
gracefully,
bowing down to winter's bone,
and ready for Spring's solstice.

When,
in surging solar winds,
upward of,
a million miles an hour,
40 hours after leaving their sun,
raining in an big bright ariel shower,
emphasizing their greatness,
in an eerie tranquility,
behind a diffused hazy luster,
a distant soft moon light,
in a beautiful Glory Shining.

Silvery satin ribbons,
and celadon green bends,
as colors wait pensive to create
in messages it then sends,
a heavenly landscape,
for their part in the prism ballet,
these arial acrobats,
yearn to touch tips on sturdy cutouts,
of tall old aging trees,

Dancing into ever-changing,
multifaceted soft,
an inspiring hues,
an shifting in the breeze
they move above,
in a mystical rhythm,
a dark and mysterious,
black smoke rises
in between rays,
in the opaque darkest hour,
for the creation of,
a spiritual backdrop,
mysterious feeling power
in the magnificent,
Magnetic Midnight.

The darker the sky,
the brighter the light,
for an otherworldly setting,
as colors merge and ignite
while they mix the palate again,
I am lost in silent reverie,
for the forces that dance there in that blackness,

Awe-inspiring,
breathtakingly beautiful,
alien,
frightening,
imparting comforting wisdom,
it is everything an so exciting,
and healing to your soul,
like a hauntingly familiar sound,
of
music to your ears.

moving like in an immensely,
active native conga,
while flitting eiree,
ghosts of glaciers perform,
when fueled folklore beckon,
swirling magic colors
in a perfect moving storm
these beauties from frozen skies,
spraying snow & tossing sparks,
as their created stars,
saturate the deep,
as their tears are shed,
in big butterfly kisses,

playfully floating,
in lovely little fine wisps,
of cirrus smudges of pure refractions,
bending in rarified veils of light,
into a seamless,
shimmering skyscape.

A hiding crystal clear,
deep Alice blue sky,
now fading,
as colors are now blending,
from azure into darkest denim,
then turning periwinkle,
stretching out,
into auroral archways,
dusted in a tangerine glow
in transitioning brushstrokes,
gently cover impressionistic sketches,
evolving into luminism,
on an endless open canvas.

As I paint the words,
where I sit there quietly,
respectfully awaiting answers,
as clouds and moonlight smear,
into watercolor scenery,
using up each angel tear
an intimate engagement occurs,
the passion of nature,
is sublime,
just perfectly,
these synchronized sky swimmers ,
becoming one

As a stormy sun is forcing,
red light dancers,
holding torches,
colliding and becoming excited,
edging themselves,
these powerful ominous portents,
becoming the framework.

Around a fantastic fluorescent show,
the cast wearing blushing pink,
and wild viola purples,
tinged in chartreuse green,
basking in beauty,
where hope lies,
in these colors I've never ever seen, since,
transcending skies of tomorrow,
into an age old masterpiece,
waiting patiently for this,
spiritual journey,
to begin,
with an eager & beautiful,
dawn coming.

Where the North winds,
send a brilliant light show,
of atomic wonders,
in watery pirouettes,
of shaped effects,
& teardrops sacrificed,
swirl in spirits of harmony,
completely memorizing,
I am transfixed,
an astonishing feat,
of brilliant pigments,
smudged into,
the mysterious lightness,
my drifters heart wanders,
melded into atmospheric colors,
we can only wish to see in this lifetime.

Where life seeds now
glide,
on the giving winds,
and Eagles and hawks can,
applaud this much beauty way up there.

This place,
a heavenly firmament,
where all the sacred souls come to die,
  where all the very, very, wise end up,
where they all spend their eternal lives,
young and old alike,
eventually they all retire here,
bringing us hope or warnings,
a chance at redemption,
striking hot iron in a glow,
metallic bits,
stars form,
restless,

Sighing, awaiting,
  a gifted chance to share with us,
along with all the parished,
souls and spirits,
playfully transforming,
from native garb,
mocassin covered feet,
change into favorite animals,
stomping on the colorful floor,
a great bear,
a wolf,
a beluga whale,
a soaring raptor,
not wanting for anything,
walking in Native American circles,
to the sounds of long silent drums,
morphing & shape shifting,

Again,
and again,
and again,
where rain shadows dance,
in ancient skies,
celestial bodies are illuminated,
reflecting the fire circles,
from where distant oceans shore,
take me there...ancestors
take me there once more,

As night slowly declines,
as daylight seeps through cracks,
bleeding into tomorrow,
to fly again to share what they must,
they pray and worship their God,
and they trust..

And Aurora Borealis is her name.

Cherie Nolan © 2016

The mosquitoes supped histamine limpets into our puckered flesh
dew gilted grass entombed our feet in dappled domes
refracting the overhead fireworks
smears of whirling color
accented by smoke mote ghosts

I forgot to wear my contacts
my near-sightedness
makes you giggle nervously -
a hard full body ****** of a laugh
it arches your spine
pulling our hand-holding into an expansion
only the lining betwixt finger inlets
galvanized our pulse

well, that and your voltaic laugh
its flourishing timbre
resonant
reverberant pyrotechnic
thickly glazing aural canal

lascivious tomes penned themselves
densely
upon neural plane
dendrites imprinting chemical insignia
moment captured in impressionistic blurs

The elevator opened on the 46th floor, to a small foyer and one plain, grey door

The door opened and a young girl, 10ish, in a blue, polo, tennis dress, said, “Hi! I’m Karen, you must be Anais. Will is around here somewhere. Aren’t you pretty, though? You go to school with Lisa? No wonder Will likes you.”

She skippingly ushered me from a bright, windowed, off-white, staircase entryway, into a deep-red, mahogany paneled library. A persian cat was soon underfoot, purring and winding around my legs.”That’s Misha,” Karen said, “just shoo her away if you don’t like cats.”

I stooped down to pet Misha who eagerly offered herself to be petted and admired. As I stroked her charcoal fur, Karen said, “Let me get Will,” as she scampered off.

A gold framed, impressionistic painting, pin-lit in bright crystalline light, hung over a fireplace. In the painting, two girls, in summer hats bright with startling red bows and yellow flowers, were sharing a book. The colors were rich, deep and swirling - it looked very much like a Renoir (I know my French artists). He’d done a whole “two girls” series. I drew closer - it wasn’t a print.

Though dazed by the opulence, I hadn’t missed what Karen had said. Will liked me. I longed to interrogate her about how exactly she knew Will liked me, and what form, exactly, Will’s liking took.

I know Will and Lisa (who would be joining us in a minute) are just friends. Not that it matters, we’re heading back to New Haven later - but Karen’s statements were capable of activating a girl's guy-dar.

Karen, wearing socks but no shoes, came to a sliding halt, on the wooden floor, by grabbing the door frame to stop an otherwise complete slide into the library. “You guys are going to the Ritz for lunch?” she asked, looking back over her shoulder, in a way that indicated that she knew the answer quite well.

The Ritz Carlton is a block away and our mission was to grab the food and bring it back here to eat. “Mind if I join?” she said, before I could answer her first question, all wide-eyed, blinking impatience.

“I don’t mind at ALL.” I said, Karen whooped and was off again down the hall. “I’M COMING TOO!” she yelled. I chuckled, knowingly - I’ve been there - I’m a little sister too.

whose flowers are these?
who brought them to the gravesite
and arranged them with such care?
placing each flower individually
every week a kaleidoscope of color
pastel petals wrapped in green stems, leaves and ferns
bouquets speaking softly from the heart
conversations of love and respect
unspoken words of connection and affection
painting a picture of impressionistic serenity
amid grass and tombstones
who cared about him this much, besides us?
who cares about him still?

I’m watching lives,
lives that might’ve
been mine
flit in and
out of impressionistic
existence in the days of
bursting moments
breeding sculpted trees into living
instruments breaching screeches
throughout our ears.

gods! How long it’s been
since eternities
spent lying
white lies across pale
secrets spilt on carpets
of ash inhaled to
just get past another still life of
tangled cigarettes atop
those books I
can’t remember breathing

in picnics painted with
green black stares of
stripped down cathedrals and
I’m leaving to repent my
thoughts twitching along
steel cords killing visions of storm
tossed seas smiling at
friendly dragons green,
just him and me laughing at
St. George’s dying look.

Cat’s cast bronze curls
inside sleeping shirts hanging
off the back of
suicide notes, shoulders bent
while we stare and
dare to listen to lives not
ours to live. Chocolate covered
whiskers fixing colors for our
pictures; but it’s all
false imaging anyway.

Pirates and witches taking
shots at our thoughts
downing liquored treats
divining dances towards the driven
roads leaking floors feeling
beats crackling down
our spine; cigarette
kisses in cafe corners
watching stars explode blank life in
gold spattered sheets.

A lone man hanging life ten
thousand miles high falling
into swirling cotton candy flames
and how I want to
believe it ever really meant
anything at all! Footprints
never changing in the
Moon lit laughs down streets
I hardly care to remember.
Black Crow!

Black Crow! How you
seem to fall out his eyes
crying chlorine tears into a
mouth never coughing up
life and breath lost on the
backs of laughter smiling mirrored
spirits of fleeting peace reflecting
tomorrows lives back to our
eyes searching fabled bravery
in Arsenic's cup.

We’re all trying to see past
our eyes and
understand how we
can trivialize the rings of
swirling flames blinking in
Sol’s iris; photographed
silhouettes tying
tongues to labeled nebula
in one junkies eye
reflecting the need

gnawing upon my
mind watching your
thousand smiles spend
my time and I’m trying
to remember what it meant
to see another breaking
mountainsides, ninety mph
vibes falling naked in the
grass underneath
your back.

I’d rather watch ghosts
doubled, holding islands
of dust solidified on those
stone cold basement
floors fighting clothing to chase
an innocent drunk down stairs
falling into nights 900 miles
away, memories I don’t have
cast aside, tiny capsules
encapsulating dying fires.

How G and R and
E reflect the sun in
skies dancing floating
clouds just gone by,
making friends with a
blaze of smoke pouring
out our words in the hue of
blue; lit cigarettes
catching the cold rim of
nights growing old

with fungus, chemicals
washed up on the edge of
photographs stained with
pieces of a memory in
a lamps single light; I’m
borrowing camera’s to
impress a girl entwined
in spiders silken webs
hanging voids of
every colored space.

And god, how young
these faces look, too
young in the company of
these stars scratching
at the door to break out
of these times; lost
bicycle rides down aisles
playing with Atlas
shrugging off his burdens
to ride 25 cent smiles

in the lights of tonight’s
fires dragging branches
dried of sunlight spilling
golden liquid out of
plastic red cups. Freshly
tattooed haircuts watching
in all earnestness
growing old and pretty
soon all our hair will run out
of our skulls to cover

the bathroom floors in
**** and *****
covered stardust;
we’re peaking our heads
out the shower
while we dance tip toed
steps across the
branches growing out of 
decks into frozen
chemical nights.

the crowd and the bass
flooded my body
as it flooded yours

we were just points
in an impressionistic painting

but in another universe
there were only you and me
and you tried
to bring as much space between us
as possible

The orange paints the clouds
as if it needed some care.
and everything else is painted with darkness.
Then, the sky is a an impressionistic painting.

The light vanishes bit by bit
as a lamp about to burn
and everything else about to rest.
Then, the world is a modern poetry.

The city shivers
as a cold and tender skin
and everything else shivers too.
Then, the doubt is realist prose.

The Sun lies down on the horizon
as a nightly kiss of farewell
and everything else kisses me too.
Then, love is a reciprocal.

From the dim misty past
through the mind's tunnel dark
memory like a flash of lightning bursts
upon the moment unexpected-
a screen of smoke appears to shut
away the present--- a standstill of time--

pictures, smells, sounds, voices
light, shades, colours, places, faces
they resurrect
like fragments of shattered glass
where only vague images suggest
as in impressionistic paintings
with wide gaps waiting to be filled
by the imagination of the rememberer

feelings are awakened
in an avalanche
the heart beats fast
in confusion as reality
fades and sinks away
the imperious past
claims victory
and takes over
with relentless immediacy

it's as though
our human life
is a boundless sea
each wave a memory
of rapture or sorrow
of triumphs or set-backs
of  remorse, regrets, aches
of dreams that perished
of hopes that vanished
of love or its loss
of beauty which once
held majestic sway
to end at the close of day

are we sad or happy
each one of us
none does know
but oneself
what would you
and I finally say?

Our world is screaming,
Cover our ears,
But eyes are open
To the turbulent reds
Swirling the sky.
We pose,
Some in rockers
With wry smiles,
Holding pitchforks,
Looking Gothic,
Harvesting potatoes,
Filling pockets.
We dance across
Impressionistic canvases
Framed by our art.
In the corner
Of my city
Waits an active asylum.
Put a jacket on,
Scream,
Things are
Coming undone.

My heart is forest

it hides deepest mystery

am I in a dream

The way of your brush
And not anyone else’s
Is like rain that doesn’t think
It falls like the weight of nature
Upon our life without remorse
Or need for our approval
But you act like a student
Thinking of lines that rhyme
Or shadows that compose
Colors of word and sound
Yes that is the way you started
But no longer
Don’t think that way anymore
Don’t think at all
You already know the feeling
It is a test of yourself
Like borrowing money from a friend
They know you're broke
Your word has suddenly become important
They believe in you and it’s up to you now
It may be more than you can handle
You don’t know how you can do it
It is how life explodes through your veins
You don’t think about how you are angry
You just are and it is a world without rules
Being provoked is not impressionistic
It is real without self-consciousness
Hurry, hurry; rush to show us
It will be over soon
You will begin thinking about approval again
That is the mistake of your art
You think about us
Instead
Let us think about you
We want to know how angry you are
The honesty of the rain has become you
If only you didn’t worry about the rest of your life
The risk of being a river
Or a lake
Or evaporated
That is your risk
Don’t fix it later
Don’t decide that you didn’t really feel that way
Yes you did

You
Felt
That
Way

Show me

Just do what you want to do

They tell me I know what I'm doing.

I'm a master stumbler.

I record the sounds of my steps
along the cobblestones of thoughts
tracing me through mere minutes of my day.

I'm no predator of words,
hungrily snatching them from their sound slumber.
I've never slain a thought for
the sake of hanging its trophy on my page.

I have no brush at the ready,
no photographic,
impressionistic mind
gathering the sights and sounds
like a gambler collecting her winnings.

I could not, at gunpoint,
fire off the words to save my life,
no eloquent please,
no well turned phrases,
no sycophantic soliloquy.

I am the shell of my experiences,
my hide made only
of the ones that have hardened me.
     This is no way to love.

Up flew the moonlight tide
flying like a stairway to the clouds.
The light blue stars twinkled
showing the impressionistic side
of the art that is supposed to be
the playing of dice by the four forces.
The beauty of it all seems suspicious.
Never mind it all, lets swim to the clouds.

Here's a little something,
I'm not sure it's poetry; maybe prose.
My day was going well, knocked-off early, travelled home.
With the morning's mail, my new bank cards, as expected.
But not quite - the name - so wrong.
There was my title, 'Miss', but with my old boy-name, in full.
I was stunned and distressed.  Upset and angry in equal measure.
It had seemed all so simple at the bank last week, and,
now. this. *******. ****.
I went straight down, on the Victoria line, steaming,
holding back hot tears, and sunglasses well needed.
An hour later and I was out in the street again.
Looking around still a bit stunned.
Lots of promises and a sort of disappointment in myself
that I didn't explode as much as I had expected.
It might have been a kind of therapy perhaps?
Actually I needed a different sort - a stiff drink.
Old reaction. Victoria is fine for that, innit?
A wine and time to sort out the ****** mess I am.
In the bar I search for one calming thought, something to put me in a better mood.
I owe myself more than this furious self-pity, for Christ's sake.
I know I can do it.  I'm too subjective, but I can use this weakness too.
And here it is. You and me.
Our time together at the weekend.  So simple.
A fresh, vivid memory not yet dimmed by the passing of more mundane things.
Being in your arms, looking into your blue eyes, I the object of your passion.
A bubble universe of you and me that will be for always.
It's a special memory sealed just like a bug in amber.
Forever in space and time aloof and impervious to the world's crap.
Showered by your hot kisses, I became a goddess for a night.
I unlocked your spirit too; you shone and took my breath.
We were locked so close.  Vibrating with mutual energy.
I glowing, you gasping and drained but happy, both dizzy.
How can this be?  We don't deserve this.  This is 'love'.
Actual, ******, romantic, love. The stuff teenagers dream about.
I worry that I'm not really supposed to have this.
But I know a good thing when I see it my love.
So like I said, I'm subjective, impressionistic sometimes.
It was a simple trick to switch the ****** thoughts for another
that was so, so much sweeter....

impressionistic, dabs at life's canvas
trying  the light and dark,
usually  violating the rules,
freely expressing outside  the contours,
the boundaries no limit for me,
I am not tooled
or succinct in the palate
of medieval  details  limiting a
certain number of syllables,
I use adverbs and adjectives interchangeably
try though I may
my write hand  wobbles,
and veers of the course ,
and I see

sunlight hits the pillow,
and the whole world shudders,
a breathe gets caught
and it fights to just exist

a hand reaches out,
warmth blooms all over the bedsheets,
the sun rays begin their dance
and the tears are absent

shouts and efflorescence,
a cacophonous impressionistic painting,
heavy steps filled with grace
one wrong turn and you fall

fall,
fall,
fall,

your legs betray you,
blood begins to spill from the open wounds,
it is true that a ton of feathers
is just as heavy as a ton of bricks

but a hand props itself,
the ocean rises and waves hit the shore,
fishermen hide their boats
a storm is yet to begin

and you fly,
with your broken wings,
and lilac bruises
and a heart that refuses to surrender

golden particles twirl high up to the sky,
the clouds begin to part,
and you as well
will you disappear

though as it starts pouring,
everything falls into place,
flowers need the downpour
in order to survive

yet sometimes it’s easier to fall asleep
let the body hit the mattress,
greatness is binding
but the cosmos won’t stop existing without you

so let your head clear,
and disappear for a while.

When you see a raindrop,
Flake of snow,
FEEL a zephyr,
Sight
A rainbow;
Things transient,
Potent,
Impressionistic,
Rememberable,
That
Is
ME.

father awakened

beckoned by bathroom in night

his death approaching like headlights in

rear-view

in cars he careened into cornfields so

long ago

in women he obsessed over

poured over while rolling tea

in records he flips through

languidly

suffering alone, retracting into song

crucifix still hung over his jaded bedpost

lotion still sits on by his bed

where he lay debased and tempted

by nothing

while his house breaths fissures

and crumbles

where his legacy sits truncated and dusted

in books of song

carpet collecting impressionistic stains

stove top counting days with soot

medicine cabinet reminds of his frivolous

youth

when he was foolish and paid bills

before he was afraid to climb his creaking

stairs

before he delivered flowers to the funeral

home

before the acetaminophen ate his soul

Or was it the fourth.
my thirst to be an artist was
upended there
but I still try to do pure impressionistic,
faintly descriptive sketches
and still want to do watercolor landscapes
I was, though, in my element 5 or so years ago
doing sketches of famous people
and writing a small poem next to them on the same page
on the suggestion of my sister Nancy.
Great art dumbfounds me, it's so majestic
and especially complicated next to mine.
I still want to work with clay
and always wanted to be a sculpture
The French impressionists are my favorite
followed by classical great architecture
and the renaissance art.
I do like detail when it's somebody else doing it
but not when it's me
at least lately.
With my kind of glossing over things,
I'll never be remembered.
For sure Andy Warhol will.

*Charles Sturies

THE PAST

The distant mindscape: faces, sound, colour, places, images-
Like impressionistic paintings:
The misty sea beneath the pale moon-light,
The far-away green hill,
The fading flower, the silent lake-
The vastness of the summer field-
Forgotten street-lamps
In deserted parts of one’s childhood town,
Children’s laughter and cries
In the after-dinner hours
Watched by their mother’s vigilant and loving eyes
Abandoned boats on an unknown shore
Sharing the sighs
Of the sea and the winds that pass by-
The faint echo of violin strains
Floating late into the depths of the cold night-
Words of those we loved, knew and met-      
Like an endless kaleidoscope, scenes
Drawn on life’s play-field, initialled by
Laughter and tears:
Long-forgotten now, only hints,
Vestiges of clouded moments, lost
In the labyrinth of time.
The past is only fragmented memories
Cradled within the landscape of the mind-
Is it beautiful, sad or bitter-sweet?
Only you and you alone
Know
Only you alone
Can tell.