Impressionism in paint, in music, in words

To know the impossible to be impossible
and yet to love the attempt;
to demonstrate that beauty is eternal, yet
seen only in that moment now,
never to be captured, ever changing -
'evanescent' holds a little of the sound of it -
this, the heroic failure that betokens love.

Monet was that hero. For perhaps you may
catch beauty's shadow in a photograph;
even glimpse its joy, there, in the sound of song;
but try to catch it - dab by dab of brush -
when in the time it takes to do this, yet another leaf
- there, watch it as it drops -
has fallen from that distant orange-yellow-brown
blur of an autumn wood - knowing as you render nature's generality
or catch a church, a haystack, in a sundown glow,
that all things pass -
that love's heroic: and when, in irony that surely
needs no underlining, blindness comes upon you, yet

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poem by Michael Shepherd
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Mistaken Priorities - 0973 - Current Version

Mistakes we made are coming home to roost.
too little energy remains to boost.
A la recherche du temps perdu we flee
another act's attacked, the will to see
is often absent from the script, see Proust,
as 'havoc and the guns of war' are loosed.

We flee towards an end both known, unknown,
follow a path which our own past has sown,
here straight, there stony, everywhere its key
to city_zen in tune with Destiny
inscribed in cyphered symbols should be shown
not cast away, wind willy-nilly blown.

But fear of fear too often dissipates
impressions outlined by the hand that Fate's
swift moving finger writes for clarity,
when blind eye's turned, and spurned self charity,
then senseless seem priorities, debates
are blurred where truth all pride of place vacates.

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poem by Jonathan Robin
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0021 Under the bridge of time

Oui, c'est beaux, le jardin... at this time of year;
mais... for myself,
a little too overgrown – but Monsieur
prefers it that way… you see him down there
by the lily pond, the nymphées?

He’s nearly blind now, yet he’s out all day
and nearly every day. He draws life from the garden,
je crois; and though there are some who laugh
and say, his paintings are now
mere daubs, when I see them
and then go out into the garden,
there’s a truth there, beyond what we see…
what passes, what floats serene and unaffected...
what floats on time itself...

You may find this fanciful, but I’ve watched Monsieur
over the years: first he had the garden made,
when he could afford it, and the bridge and then the pool
that slows the river… then he painted the lilies which we planted,

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poem by Michael Shepherd
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Summer Of Mango Showers! ! ! !

Prolific Spring has thrown in her towel,
To tussel with torrid chaos in warm April,
Sun’s slow winter seduction has gone in vain,
In myriad sighs of lonely distress blazes in ruthless campaign,
Like a flame held too close to the heart,
Hoarding too many years in one brief season,
He unerringly darts,

Feverish Indian Summer dons a crest of heat & dust,
Over hot macadam that tape &measure, the breath of summer,
Land contours that crack crease & dry, a pattern of brine fits the paper sky,
Scorching days like time-worn love that tingles the heart & torches the sky,

Dusty flowers crumble, slipping through his golden fingers,
Two horizons hover, in a mirage of packed dirt in nervous squiggles,
The hurting fields furrowed, poke heaven in the underbelly,
Temples find no devotees glistening in communal sweat,
Like its turrets in filigree,
After the scorn of summer, days shall return with the resoluteness of winter.! ! ! !

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poem by Seema joglekar
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Global Idol Idyll - 0973 - Current Version

What were priorities of yesterday?
Subsistence fraught with much fragility,
man's coil unshuffled soon, as end of play
stem cut from rose bloom, life-expectancy
short, caught in superstition cowled in grey,
or shaman stripping Easter Island's tree.
Fee none avoid when piper waits on pay.

Mistakes men made are coming home to roost.
A la recherche du temps perdu most flee
too little energy remains to boost.
Vision absent, in new century,
this global village veers off script: see Proust.
Pollution, pillage, menace land and sea,
as 'havoc and the gods of war' are loosed.

We flee towards an end both known, unknown,
here straight, there stony, seldom seem in key,
follow a path which our own past has sown,
what city_zen's in tune with Destiny?

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poem by Jonathan Robin
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