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Posts Tagged ‘guest’

I met Monet

in his princely demeanor,

among the manicured lawn

and the secret garden

grows its verdant sprigs

and tresses, wild and free

in the prairie. Butterfly

flutters  paint palette

hovering bloom

after bloom. Solitude

 

drips in cadmium and ochre sun

sitting prominently,

potted and composed,

regal and undisturbed.

A gentle touch of the brush

that peaceful gaze,

horizonless strokes,

a sweet landscape.

 

I walk dreamily

drank with loveliness,

the wavy enthusiasm

of the blue sea.

Such is the welcoming

spirit of the flags

sashayed in the wind,

gliding together

with solitary birds

taking flight. Still

 

above the silver lake,

mirrored pools

of mountains in reverie.

I see reflections

of wooden boats

bobbing in a dance

with quiet clouds

rippling soft creating

small shivers

in its feathery face.

 

I remember the way

he  ushered me in

like an esteemed guest.

Taking my eyes to see

his picture books

of seeming easiness,

that immortal silence

showing how

to live as human,

not quite heavy

as his tormented soul.

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She prepared her new year’s resolution in advance

writing down beginning and ending of things

and the reasons why she needed a starting over.

There is a luggage she’s tugging down the concourse

hurriedly outpacing the brisk walking of time,

meeting down in the alleys of strangers and guests,

with a  mask of smiles and warmth of handshakes.

She wrote words about her past life compiled to a book

for the world to read awaiting for her autograph signing

and a keepsake of empowerment how she made it through

hell and have been there when no one cared to witness.

 

It is another dramatic story rolling off the press

of another life written down for movies to gobble up

sparking another way for media moguls raking in profits.

She did not understand that her life became a playground

for dreamers and drifters praying for some kind of salvation.

When tomorrow will be another sorry day for someone

who can match up sympathy and the public adulation.

When she forgets about the time when reality is not

what she is on TV, but a flickering glitter destined not

to last another year. As fickle as the world spins around,

she begins another round of playing masquerades again.

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