L'Artiste
phishgod
Posts: 133
L’Artiste
(for L.)
Taut, crisp
lines, stroke
of brush
on palette,
canvas fully
stretched, mounted
picture perfect,
in gold-white
light, the
easel casts
a lonely
shadow, pencils
sharpened, fresh
bone-handled
pen and
ink stone
glisten in
morning sun.
L’Artiste sips
his coffee,
wards away
nightfog,
morning chill,
utters prayers
or meditations,
devotions to
spirits of
old masters
(like Gauguin),
begins sketching
with gleaming
eye, wizened
hand, glint
of Hope
long inscribed
deep within
heart’s mirror.
As faint
sketch reveals
the portrait,
grace, flare,
Beauty emerge
the dark
inner hidden
world of
the model’s
soul, a
sprig of
cherry garland
about her
neck, the
rich lush
orange-brown
of fabled
eyes appear,
hair “floofed”
a stunning
sheen, a
Mona Lisa
smile beaming
in light
and shadow,
an amber
pendent reflects
sparkling sun
nested in
a perfect
cleavage shadow.
On the
far coast,
the model
stretches, wipes
sleep away,
draws her
bath, soaks,
dresses in
cherried floral
print and
begins her
far walk
to work,
as a
gold-white
sun rises
luminescent on
her flaxen
hair, smiling
at everyone,
everywhere,
all people,
all birds,
flowers, trees,
and hints
of eucalyptus
in the
seafoam dawn
of a
new day.
L’Artiste
smiles, finishes
his now
cool coffee,
finalizes his
completed portrait
from memory
with a
flare and
a flourish,
signs and
dates the
piece, pauses
momentarily to
reflect on
radiance of
his work,
knowing he’s
captured Beauty
for all
time with
bold strokes,
taut lines,
closes up
his sketchpad
and ends—
this poem.
--March 24, 2002
@pth
(for L.)
Taut, crisp
lines, stroke
of brush
on palette,
canvas fully
stretched, mounted
picture perfect,
in gold-white
light, the
easel casts
a lonely
shadow, pencils
sharpened, fresh
bone-handled
pen and
ink stone
glisten in
morning sun.
L’Artiste sips
his coffee,
wards away
nightfog,
morning chill,
utters prayers
or meditations,
devotions to
spirits of
old masters
(like Gauguin),
begins sketching
with gleaming
eye, wizened
hand, glint
of Hope
long inscribed
deep within
heart’s mirror.
As faint
sketch reveals
the portrait,
grace, flare,
Beauty emerge
the dark
inner hidden
world of
the model’s
soul, a
sprig of
cherry garland
about her
neck, the
rich lush
orange-brown
of fabled
eyes appear,
hair “floofed”
a stunning
sheen, a
Mona Lisa
smile beaming
in light
and shadow,
an amber
pendent reflects
sparkling sun
nested in
a perfect
cleavage shadow.
On the
far coast,
the model
stretches, wipes
sleep away,
draws her
bath, soaks,
dresses in
cherried floral
print and
begins her
far walk
to work,
as a
gold-white
sun rises
luminescent on
her flaxen
hair, smiling
at everyone,
everywhere,
all people,
all birds,
flowers, trees,
and hints
of eucalyptus
in the
seafoam dawn
of a
new day.
L’Artiste
smiles, finishes
his now
cool coffee,
finalizes his
completed portrait
from memory
with a
flare and
a flourish,
signs and
dates the
piece, pauses
momentarily to
reflect on
radiance of
his work,
knowing he’s
captured Beauty
for all
time with
bold strokes,
taut lines,
closes up
his sketchpad
and ends—
this poem.
--March 24, 2002
@pth
rockon,
phishgod
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