An abstract poem written in the style of the
Avante Garde/Politicial overtones |
Combat. Are there ancient soldiers in the rooms filled with paintings? What kind of colors are they? We must flatter, whistle, shout our applause, and proclaim the best of tidings for them. Their spinning wheels are spinning tales with the sound of soothing harps, their armor woven by milk-maids and lauded by knights of olden times. We walk through the chambers whispering, swaying with questions,as mirrors hold the affectionate expressions of young people looking for love, in a crowded room. Opening and swirling is the nemesis of talk that passes under archways, akin to the natural sound of scattering love for great artists as it juxtaposes with strange news thrown into the streets in the wake of rebels, floating in parables that are wishes, crashing the universe, slicing the underworld of gods as they all walk out to the melodrama of their lives as students. The canvases are soaked with love left to see--framed roses& apples & grapes, & moist fig--in the figures of lovers abandoned for the moment. Reflections echo from one to the other when doors open as college men and women shuffle through the exit. History is now as the world becomes a stage as the world passes to another day light in its phases of growing years, lording in days of reckoning heralding a space to where another set of paintings will be hung that speak of no soldiers at all Perhaps, it is only because those such artists of the craft, were raised in the bright light of alien knowledge beaming devastating colours. |