poetry & things


Sometimes half asleep, scribbling words

or waiting for the morning sky to deliver birds

I fall off the edge, leave this tiny bed

float on rainy streets, there is no one that I meet

only a corner vacant house, where precious paintings hang

I am staring in the window, at flowers yellow, blue

this must be the room of Vincent Van Gogh, this starry night

with lily ponds so beautiful, fields of flowers

purple iris, Monet meadows

brown skin woman, hibiscus flowered

island scenes of Paul Gauguin, so brightly colored

there are pastel Degas dancing ballerinas

Marc Chagall, blue indigo people

without legs, they smile surreal

this museum of the mind

minutes like hours

turned sublime

Post navigation
Scroll to top