Monet Sky

by

Tanya Ruth Larson

Beneath the Monet sky I lay,
a brushstroke of canvas splayed,

Recognizing the cloud-lathered infusion
into silhouetted faces amassing in union;

At peace in my horizon I practice being kind,
Blessings stretched to the limits of my mind;

Green acres roll into the pastel forecast;
I whisper to the clouds, 'you are unsurpassed',
///////////////////////////////////////////////////////////
Try as I might, the memorized poem strays from my mind
as I recite my recipes for enlightenment;
More polishing needed accordingly;
Bestow upon me not, your hormonal simplicity,
For my league is in the race for the team
The race for beatific-godly,
Gaining kindness in speed.
///////////////////////////////////////////////////////////
Back to the clouds gusting east and they sing,
Especially to the pouring of Foch,
And the poesy of Abba
Silhouetting my beat with a 'Heart of Glass'*
I cry at the joy of inspiration,
That's you;
And the clouds that keep pumping my dreams
Full with the winds of rectitude;
Ressurection to fire the chill,
Cast of visionary dissolution,
Disillusionment a predator of my mind;
Siphening my energy, you dance
to the music that only you can find,
I pretend not to notice, only the clouds...
Only the clouds exist,
You are but a pleasant dream;
A smiling face shading my sun,
I look away, back to the feather pillows
pouring up into the bluest sky;
Tip of the mountain an indiscernable ghost,
A patch-work quilt blankets
the uneven seams of logging roads;
And another tree falls down.
///////////////////////////////////////////////////////////
Arbutus trees shedding their paper-thin skin,
perfectly coiled scrolls awaiting a caligraphy pen,
An inpenetrable green shield exposed.
Slippery limbs curl, upwards grotesque,
into sudden weather descending on fields,
splashing the streams, obscuring the sun's ego,
Intruding on my clandestine affair
With a renowned french artist,
His painted dreams lighting my eyes,
Forever alive in fields of poppies,
Ever the bridge over waterlilies;
We huddle together under my tattered
blankets, and wait for the storm to pass,
My only yen is to strip off my clothes
like an eagle of the sun, and fly off
the naked cliff into the mirrored sky.

NEXT?
Why don't you look at Pale Pink Green and Gold
by: Joyce Hemsley
from: Sunderland, England, UK

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