a staccato wind
buffets the horizon
and the pencil-like cypress bend
their uplifted arms keep’n
time to the rhythm

green colored scrawl’n
on ground, cerulean.
vincent’s keep’n time on the mend.
visions celestial lay’n
as thick as a thumb.

the swirl’n’s penned
time into an oiled grin.
and though paris ignored the trend
we marvel at the scrawl’n
of that ginger’s drum.

© 2017 rl bussél

Starry Night by Vincent van Gogh Oil on Canvas, June 1889 Museum of Modern Art, New York

corpses strewn on a battlefield
like lacy gray leaves
upon an unyielding earth.

the poor and the well-heeled,
no brady¹ bereaves.
it brings no increase to his worth.

the mirror’s stolen mirth
is lost among the sheaves.
ev’n murderous crows fail to yield.

reflections swallowed, steeled.
light caught in earthen sleeves.
we give ‘em all a wide berth

forgotten, unremembered, unremarked

© 2017 rl bussél

1. Mathew B. Brady, Civil War Photographer. Known for his self promotion. https://www.archives.gov/education/lessons/brady-photos ↩

then the azure sky
stirs
and after her languid night
wraps herself in yellow bows.

flocked, ingres-like, they lie.
shirrs,
patterns of limpid light;
the earth strewn with ochre throws.

lambs bleat happy sighs.
curs
greet the suckling daylight,
rising, colored in her glow.

dappled arms reach high.
firs,
forget the oldest blight,
and east to west she does flow.

furtive glances, shy
hers,
wash their evening’s delight,
forgetting the ancient blow.

and crisp swaying rye
purrs
hellos to winding heights,
greetings unremarked by doe

old men set to pry
errs
from clay encased in spite;
it’s, unmoved by sweat or dough.

then payne’s gray sky
whirs
and after her lively flight
wraps herself in darkest woe.

© 2017 rl bussél

the morning star surprises
then the pensive questioner arises
and in all his many guises
mumbles and then demoralizes
tumbling forth to block the way
swallowing the lightness of the day

haystack after haystack transforms,
deforms
from claude to salvador
needle melting into nail piercing the door
hammer still heard, hammer still heard, hammer still heard
the years passing into byword

yet, my words
hang,

frozen
leaping not from thought or draught,
letters stilled and ashen,
vigor stollen before arm, bar or bowl
and all’s abash’n
fall’n

© rlbusséll 2017