Amidst the misty morning,
Atop the naïve snow,
The thin white wind blew, chilly,
‘Neath sun’s unearthly glow.
The living glass of needles
Lay beneath the stalwart fir
And I, the bear, thought all this
But, alas, could only say “grr.”
Tag Archives: Art
Not Your Average Love
She was a starving art history student,
Forced by fate towards whatever was prudent,
Yet she had a temptation she could not evade…
A man, in a sense, who with her heart played.
He was the Egyptian God of the dead,
With unlimited power and an animal’s head,
Yet despite devestation he doled out at will
His heart had an urge that he just couldn’t kill.
Her focus was on just money and Monet.
All of existence was under his sway.
She spent her days in the study of cubists.
He spent his evenings just being Anubis.
Somehow the two met at a holiday party.
She thought him a bad boy. He thought her a smarty.
The exchanged numbers and met up for brunch.
She loved his mystique. He loved how her bones crunch.
Yet, deep as their love was, they each said good bye
For they’d not live together unless she would die.
So ends the tale of this starcrossed romance
Of a girl and a God, both with un-gotten-into-pants.
Filed under Poems
Rodin’s “The Age Of Bronze” Talks About His Career Change
I am a person made of bronze,
Carved from orangish metal.
My body looks so human
But I’m closer to a kettle.
I’ll never move, I’ll never speak,
I’ll never love or feel.
I’ll never be a human,
But I’m absolutely real.
I’ll never learn of math or art.
I’ll never know a fact.
I’ll have no skills in anything,
So I guess I’ll have to act.
My body’s perfect, ageless, strong
Although I can’t be dumber
And thus I’ve come to Hollywood,
Renamed “The Up-And-Comer.”
Filed under Poems
And You Can Help By Buying My Books! (For Art’s Sake)
If I make a million dollars
Writing poetry some day
I’ll buy a bunch of bushes
And cut them in a way
That they’re shaped like women
Who don’t like 50 Shades of Grey
Because we all need a bit more
Of those in our lives, eh?
Filed under Poems
The Sentiment Is True Of Most Art, Actually
Poetry
Is like a knee;
It certainly has it’s place
But we’ll agree
Whether poem or knee
It’s better off not in your face.
Filed under Poems
Art Appreciation, Chapter One
Visualize synchronicity:
The epiphanies stimulate
Largesse and postulation.
Improvement is realized through
Calamitous virtues,
And that is why pigs are green.
Filed under Poems
An Unappreciated Gift
The shape of Mount Everest,
And nearly the size
My dog’s defecation
On my neighbor’s lawn lies.
The shape of an axe
(Because that’s what it is),
My neighbor reminds me
To keep off what’s his.
The shape of a puppy
And the acent of a fart,
My dog watches this thinking
“They just don’t get my art.”
Pictionary
He drew a pair of tentacles
And a rocket on its side
With a pair of spiny barnacles
Beneath a grey-black sky.
Barry shouts “it’s patriotism,”
And Andy says “That’s it!”
The rest of us just sit and stare,
And Laura says “well, shit.”
The Art Of Heisting
I saw a priceless piece of art
Hanging on your wall.
I dug a slit beneath it
Into which it could fall.
I shook the house forcefully
With a wrecking ball,
And now to find the painting,
Through rubble I must crawl.
It seemed a good idea
For thieving at the time.
Your house was so unguarded
And perfect for a crime,
And the painting was so beautiful
It’d sell for quite a dime.
Alas, my plan was vetted
By an unreliable mime.
So because of my planner’s silence
I made a lot if noise
With the pretense of stealing
Your super pretty toys.
I hope I’ll find a better partner
Among the orange-jumpsuited boys.
Ah, the art of heisting
And all its simple joys.
Filed under Poems
Pottery
Pottery is a hobby
And an art form, in a way.
To do it, you spin a wheel
And use lots and lots of clay.
You stick the pot-in-progress
In a special sort of stove,
And you paint it different colors
‘Cause the default’s sort of mauve.
Once your pot is finished
You can fill it up with stuff
Like pebbles, beads, or flowers
Or all sorts of girly stuff.
Then you stick it where you’ll look at it
And feel the nostalgia
Of the day you took to potter
Instead of studying hydromalgia.
Filed under Poems
The Daily Travesty 