Galleries Galore

His hand cradled hers;
Hers’ swallowed in his.
Her delicate fingers found safety.
His rough calluses found purpose.

No agenda.
No timetable.
No watch.
No phone.
Only them alone.
Alone, together among the masses.

Happiness sat upon his shoulders.
Wonder captured her eye and his.
’Twas the wonder of passing wonder on to his,
’twas the wonder of two and generations.

This is their time to stare.
This is their time to see.
This is their time to be.

And all the sounds of busy,
they had no ill effects.

Monet and Modigliani are
cradled under arcs of light —
softly it’s spilled round.
Muted foot-falls and hushed breaths
were all that they could sound.

Her neck was stretched
in Modigliani style
to see what could be seen;
It was if all that “The Greek”
could teach was, in her, made flesh.

Claude’s colors were splashed
on canvas large
in haphazard order,
that caused Beauty to bend
her haughty eyes to drink.

This is their time to stare.
This is their time to see.
This is their time to be.

Mr. Well’s machine is seen in
these vaulted halls of frames.
Each brushstroke takes us back,
and the dust of centuries laid on linen fair
can be seen by anyone who takes the time to stare.

© rl busséll 2019 – All rights reserved.


Lavrans’ Day

”Life is held in flowered holds”

Slender tapers’ light
flickers, sputters, splashes and holds
his dying might
in the evens’ hold.

His life’s loves
and griefs:
a child crushed
beneath barreling bark,
another throws
herself against the ark,
another tied
to sister’s lark,
another sputtered with ne’er
a spark.

All his life spent
‘neath starry expanse,
spent lifting, warring
with word and blade,
is worthless now;
only breath beneath the brow
matters now.

Halberd’s glory, hoary head,
watchers watching
and the priest beside their bed
fade in the light of viaticum;
manna from heavens’ head,
life from life, bread from bread.

Oh, to borrow time instead,
instead of fading,
slipping from
flesh to bed,
from life to dead.

Oh, to forget not
and be not forgotten,
to spin the wheel
and leave some spark,
to leave a fire,
to leave some part,
to be given over
and leave a mark.

the taste of life,
the taste of sorrow,
the taste of tears,
the taste of blood
upon the spear.

”Life is held in flowered holds”

His gold-haired beauty
pierced his heart
where blade could never stray;
blood poured from open wounds,
open sorrows, open swoons.
Anger flashed and held too long
broke what ne’er before was
broken long.

No matter now,
bridges mended;
babe was loved,
even if his spark
did flash before
the promise sworn.

”Life is held in flowered holds”

Sprinkle life
upon the spent
and with water
mend the rent.


© rl busséll 2018 – All rights reserved.

Dedicated to Sigrid Undset.

Few novels have an impact beyond the ink and paper, Kristin Lavransdatter, by Sigrid Undset, is one of those novels. If you need a novel to read and you don’t want to waste your time with fluff, read Kristin Lavransdatter.

Links to purchase “Kristin Lavransdatter by Sigrid Undset” Tiina Nunnally (Translator) from Audible, Amazon, and Barnes and Noble:

Barnes and Noble

Sigrid Undset as a young girl - Photographer Unknown

Sigrid Undset as a young girl – Photographer Unknown

Interested in learning more about Sigrid Undset, here are a couple of posts to wet your whistle:

Fascinating Facts about Sigrid Undset, Author of Kristin Lavransdatter
Modern Mrs. Darcy’s short post on Kristin Lavransdatter

From Sam Guzman Catholic Gentlemen’s Site Kristin Lavransdatter and Your Nordic Medieval Catholic Heart by Tyler Blanski

The Thomistic Institute Podcast Father Snyder “The Drama of Grace: Sigrid Undset and the Narrative of Conversion”

Catholic Stuff Podcast “Kristin’s Resentment”