Poetry: Colorplay

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The morning sun became the trembling hand

On the door to the boudoir, revealing

Bowed leaves in dazzling shades of emerald,

Bright bursts of deep lemon, orchid and white.

The shock of color rendered the sculptures

Of the dead absurd, for no eyes so charmed

By this thrilling pageant of life could think

The vibrant present was not eternal.

We walked on to the chapel, where artists

Once transformed simple tints into the folds

Of a monk’s robe, and without word or thought

Found ourselves buying pastels in a shop

And carving out a small sliver of floor

In our tiny room to play with color.

Poetry: Lines

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The choreographer in meditation

Thought of lines, how it all comes back to lines:

Not geometry, not the art-class lines

Creating cheap horizons, but bold lines

Of energy, rhythm battling rhythm,

Intersecting through intent rather than

Inevitable science. As I watch

The dancers paint the movement with bodies

Sacrificed to expression, I cherish

The meaning: without words, without a need

For the hard labor of explanation,

Without interference in this moment

Of blessed suspension where I feel lines

Dancing far beyond dumb comprehension.

Photo: DANCER WOMAN
© Zeelias65 | Dreamstime.com