Avant Garde Books: Poems in Revision

REVISIONS (3 Poems)
Painting Along Causeways

I.

A one lane road filled my mind with wind-flow
and floodwaters flowing in my direction,
all objects on a cluttered map, looking like waddling

pastoral artists with vanilla confections.
Such was the aroma flowing in circles within
mandalas.

Then I caught sunlight that entered the hostels
of my youthfulness now hidden and in decay.
I was far from the Causeway

pushing through Dublin's streets
with extraordinary pillars
like raindrops in travelers’ gear.

Art reflected from the waters
dressed in zucchini, onion, and tomato bikinis.
Wondrous time was spent along Causeway shores.

I am often discontent, only to circumvent
life moving forward, too soon, blessing our solitary souls.
Thoughts flew forward

To the end of my life, along the Oceanside flow. It meant
another fake, wooden mermaid would be found on my shelf
when I was gone with a green algae cross on its bosom.

I thought of two lines running down
to point out a beloved woman on the altar.
She was wearing Catholic designs and colorful beads.

Street shrines should have been so bold
to reveal her rich, illustrious symbolism.
My painting merely portrayed

solitary summers melting the ice,
so, for once, I punctured the canvas twice.
I delicately pulled strings from its heart

revealing blue water down under.
All those years had been spent painting the
structures that looked like symbols,

one piled upon the other, rising in tides to
Dublin's galleries.

May such work be found on the misty, green isle,
thanks to the goddess,
whose blessings traveled like schools of fish to northern shores.

II.

Her long tail gleams
multi-colored along the ocean;
painted many a time over the years.
Her name is Brighid, the star and goddess.
Her image flickers in
about forty hues
filled with glass representing
a once youthful lady moving
through ages,
a beauteous bride bathing in blue bubbles,
an Atlantic angel admired by all. She’s a curvaceous cutesy siren of provoking visions
with open ears to sweet, melodious waters.

There once was a mermaid, a kindly girl
who painted quite well
She knew a fisherman who did art.
So fine was his work that she asked to pose
adorned in
seekers.
Not only did he paint sirens, but
Deep-sea dolphins
along coast sides and water wells
So when the siren removed her earthy fish chains,
She knew that her ocean dreams would feel tainted.
Others might discover heart-work undiscovered.

Sirens and mermaids observe fishermen everywhere
Rather than surfacing into love’s hold,
never do they accept those sea tales causing despair
in waters undeclared.

Let’s shine the bits of glass for people today do not grasp the cups of myths underlying these stellar works
or fables passed down.
A man just seeks a siren since she births all the mysteries of evolution,
like the deep breath,
like the threshold of heavens.

III.

They carried their easels into
the windy fields where they dined together.
Their skin itched from desire.

The creator throve in free range fields
where blue and green Picassos posed nude
brushing up crops yielding
faces unknown to them.
Let those art muses be healed
in ethical revolt with reminiscences,

and theirs are satisfactions stemming from color palettes.
Does the reader get my gist?
Crops were killed in communion
with sun’s warm kiss
anywhere these nymphs kneeled.
Afterward they were dismissed

as post-modern deals,
crushed and engaging from
real heart-work with zeal.
The reclusive Laura reminisced
what she revealed

and art had no more reason to be concealed
with its secret symbols
personified in colorful, zealous dancers
on the brink of slant-rhyming
time.