Monday Morning Musings:
“Painted portraits have a life of their own that comes deep in the soul of the painter.”
–Vincent van Gogh, 1885
Angels dance across the sky
kissing the grass with morning dew–
there, a door opens,
there, a door closes
ephemeral as a ghost.
Do you hear the belly laugh
emerging from the silence?
It is wild and warm,
Impressions of a week,
moments stored, like snapshots
a truth we seek, we speak
of how my mom is weak
our lives tied-up in knots,
and the world is often bleak,
but we take a long walk
by fountains and statues,
of family, admire brushstrokes and dots
in bathers, poplars, and fields–
impressions formed from all these spots.
I want to be in this scene
I say, and wonder what it’d be like—
I dream. . .
but we walk past the sycamore trees,
an urban oasis, cool in the summer heat
from the welcome breeze
in the garden, a rabbit darts
and bees flit, while birds sing
perhaps all patrons of the arts?
The Impressionists would enjoy
the gardens here, I think.
As we walk, I see a little boy
his shirt, says “Just Do It,”
and he looks eager to—
my impressions flit . . .
It’s a beautiful July day.
We drink wine, eat cheese,
wanting a moment to stay
here, in a bit of peace,
sitting, dreaming, a sidewalk café
(though the texts don’t cease)
we drink wine and beer,
eat luscious cheese,
and find some cheer that we’re here.
Then a day with our daughter
(more wine and cheer)
she tells me how her father taught her
and her husband how to fix things.
and we talk of friends and dreams,
and how funny it is, the way life brings
us to these moments, and all the feelings—
love and tears, dogs, house, spouse—
the roller-coaster ride that sends us reeling
and hallucinating. Yet we stop,
read a book, sit here
in a pleasant, tranquil spot. . .
they come together
somehow, my life.
forget the moments of strife—
there, the lucent moon sails high
her ship glowing
across the sapphire sky.
. . .and there are cats.