the land escapes itself in the painting
lost in translation by brush or by word
its essence beyond our senses perhaps
as in the koan conscripted
the one about the falling tree
but leaf that aside and leave us to bask
in the foliage of words, so many greens
like emerald or not unlike envy of
soft whispering or the loud cloud laughter
cannon boom and splatter
lightning flash images
dark and light and dark and
the words they linger, lagging, lusting the moment
to express as impressionistic
but no brush to hand, or ink
just pen poised
YOU ARE READING
𝓟oems 𝓟rismatic
Poetry''sketches that shape-shift the angle and the curve'' (line from the poem 'Contrast) Recent/new poems tend to be at the beginning of the book.
