Whispers At The Gallery

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.