Art

Mack the Knife – NaPo 2025 Day Thirty

For the final day of April and to close out the 2025 version of how I do National Poetry Month, I was to pen a poem that describes various times in my life when I have heard the same band or music.

Congrats to all participants. This may have been my best NaPoWriMo year because the prompts seemed to be in my poetry writing lane. One a day for 30 days, on prompt.

Thanks to Maureen for another fantastic April.

Composed

Melody and lyrics done separately
twenty years before my birth
in a language I did not speak
never intended for my ears
for the Threepenny I’ve never been

Thirteen-ish me,
a maligned Catholic school kid
discovering hormones;
Friday night dances (nun-chaperoned),
and un-churchly music we loved;
songs like The Battle of New Orleans,
Mack the Knife, Personality, Venus,
Lonely Boy, and a hundred more.

The year another paper boy
and fellow music lover, Don M. said
was when the music died.
But it had not. Not yet. Not ever.
My music may die with me. But not today.

Not until Bobby Darin — did Mack the Knife
find me with five up-key modulations
bring marvelous darkness to musical light
to make us feel a special song
in a special time. Then and since.

Wonderful covers, pre and post, but
back then I didn’t know about
someone and something I liked so much,
music that would change with me,
year after year, never the same old song.

Look both ways
“Now on the sidewalk…lies a body just oozing life, eek!”
Mind the gaps cuz,
“someone’s sneakin’ ‘round the corner—could that someone be Mack the Knife?”

Interested in more? Check THIS out—especially the video of Bobby Darin’s version, if you’re not familiar with the song.

EXTRA – EXTRA – EXTRA —- A friend and classmate of mine just let me know about this new, hot, Broadway production honoring Bobbie Daren.

 

 

 

Justice Struck Me – NaPo 2025 Day Twenty-Seven

And so, today I was challenged to write a poem that describes a detail in a painting. My poem was to begin with a grand, declarative statement.

Who Was She?

It is never just the painting and the world, I know.
Each painting unites with each eye, each mind,
to make the art meaningful. Neither stands without the other.

I recall the overall picture vaguely, but it’s the setting
I remember well. An empty courtroom
except for a little girl standing with her back to me,

and a judge looking down from his bench. Authority!
I cannot see her face, but I know it is the face
of every child confronted with

the reality of the state, power, autocratic justice.
Fear. Helplessness. Hopelessness.
I felt all of that. Overpowering feelings.

A Miami artist opened emotions
hidden so deep that I denied them.
I almost cried. I moved on, hiding the real me.

Look both ways as you play the great pretender who will live forever.
Mind the gaps because somewhere out there,
an artist knows your truth and may tell you.

 

Dream On – NaPo 2025 Day Seventeen

Today I was challenged to write a poem themed around friendship, with imagery or other ideas taken from two paintings (my choice from many). One by Leonora Carrington, and another by Remedios Varo, two surrealistic artists and friends. A surrealistically inspired, friendly poem?

The irony of this day is this prompt juxtaposed with the definition of surrealism: “the principles, ideals, or practice of producing fantastic or incongruous imagery or effects in art, literature (poetry), film, or theater by means of unnatural or irrational juxtapositions and combinations.” (Webster, on line) Where does one draw the line?

“One good friendship will outlive forty average loves.”

Faces

On purpose.
Told no one. Told everyone and nobody.
Formless as seen on tv ritual
ceremoniously entwined
with green crabapple branches.
Cuts. Touch. Mix blood brothers.
That smell. You! What? Stink-love.

Feel that? Smell. Yell. Scream.
Lie. Beatings from bullies.
Shinny-up. Run. Escape. Drown. Cross.
Crimeless criminality.

Friends first. Not. But.
Family was a lie.
Roy Rogers was naked.
All naked. Sing. Pray. Sting like a bee.

Share hair. Cardboard shoe soles
over shew holes and altar boys.
Smoke sticks. Tangents. Guilt.

Together every day. Share loot.
Flat nose. Black eye. Blood everywhere.
Swing. Fall. Break things.
Climb. Cry. Evil father.
Saintly mother. Naked sister.

Uncle Joe. G. I. what da ya know?
Cold is not coal, or pea.
Melds wrapped in love and shame.
Masturbating demons defiled hosts.
Do it. Now dare to do-do, pee higher.
Lie to be loved. Play all day.

Ugly beauty deep forever.
Melting madness of happiness.
Wanting what color of love?
Damn.
Help.
Hurry.
Hide.
It’ll never die.

Then it died.
Then you died.
Then I cried.

Back.
Then.
When.
Me.
We.

Look both ways or every way at the same time
because art is in what part of a dream when nothing is real and there is no god?
Imagine. Mind the gaps and slaps in genital naps.
If it makes sense, it cannot be art.

Rock Poem Metaphor NaPo 2025 Day Three

Day three of NaPo prompts me to follow the easy style of Frank O’Hara and to write a poem that obliquely explains why I am a poet and not some other kind of artist.

I looked. Oblique means not straightforward: indirect, obscure, devious, or underhanded. Perhaps metaphorically?

Poemhenge

Like most,
as a child I found rocks and stones interesting
to see, to hold, to gather, and to throw.
There were cool ones for holding
and some for skipping on water.
Some were hot rocks. Jocks protected stones.

I didn’t know any of the names.
Fools gold wasn’t gold or diamonds
but was filled with glittery sparkles.

Rocks had formations.
Many were famous.
Rocks and stones were even in songs.
And in idioms like rock solid
or your stone-cold heart,
or the millstone around your neck.

Eventually, old stone makers interested me
and new stone makers challenged me.
And the colors and cutters of gemstones
like emeralds, sapphires, rubies, and diamonds.

As I grew, my view of stones got more solid.
Famous rock formations attracted me,
I wanted to imitate the creators.
In the gym I used soft rock like talc
as I listened to the rock music and dreamed
of the rock candy mountain.

Rich people wore and collected rocks.
They called them jewels and gems
but I could not always tell you why.

Later, maturity took ahold of me
and I found my fit, even as a fossil,
to make rock and stone creations of my own.
Polishing stones. Stepping stones.
Stumbling blocks are rocks.
My mind one stone quarry among many quarries.
I walked the limestone line on cordoba cream—
noticing colors, styles, and finishes.

One day I collected some of my stones.
I trimmed and polished them. I included
abrasive stones, message stones, smooth stones,
and made them ready for display to the world.
And I named them all poems.

Look both ways and if you see Frank O’Hara, tell him I want to be a painter too.
Mind the gaps, especially as you traverse the rocks, then stop, sit, have a “J.”
Mind what the poets have to say.

Note: “J” is from the Paul Simon song “Late in the Evening.”

It Begins – NaPo 2025 day one

The first 2025 NaPo prompt was to write a poem that uses a new-to-me word from either the glossary of musical terms or glossary of art terminology. The new part for me is the use of the word impressionism  in music.

Impressionism was a term at first used mockingly to describe the work of Monet, et al. It was similarly used to describe vagueness, imprecision, and perceived excess of attention to colour in the early music of Debussy.

Hay Fever

One hundred eleven million greenbacks
for a line of fuzzy haystacks,
a sunset or morning sky and blue flowers
where nothing looks real. Art

by a mocked artist who wisely
adapted the moniker to that style
of bright, pure, unmixed colours.
Insults taken to the bank.

Impressionism.
Is it art?
Is it music?
What does it do, say, or mean?

Would Claude be proud now
if he knew how his art
drew a fortune
at auction.

 

Look both ways at music critics and all art.
Mind the gaps because one critic’s trash is another’s needle in a hundred-million-dollar haystack.

Poetics: Inspired by Album Cover Art

Mish from mishunderstood (A Collection of Poetry by Michelle Beauchamp) devised a prompt that I could not resist. Her dVerse prompt was to write any style of poem (ekphrastic-ish) inspired by an LP music album cover.

My (writing/art/reading/library/music/office) room walls are decorated with 100 album covers (see why I can’t resist?) with more stashed on various shelves around the room, all changed out or around regularly. While I dearly love the music and what it does to me, the albums displayed are all about the cover art with few exceptions like the Beatles White Album or the Eagles, The Long Run, and a few others. Most of it is photographic art, thus (photography is another of my “hobbies”), I must respond to yesterday’s “Poetics: Inspired by Album Cover Art.”

I chose a classic: Tapestry, Carole King’s second and most phenomenally successful album from 1971. The poem credits the photographer. The album was produced by Lou Adler and was released 10 Feb 71, by Ode Records.

Smackwater Jack

It is weird, isn’t it?
How we form attachments to things, both iconic and not.

Sights and sounds, perhaps,
more than other senses,
but still in nineteen-seventy-one, when my B.S.,
Tapestry, and Billy were all born.

(And, oh god! — Wally World.)

There’s Carole, barefooted in jeans,
sitting on the bench window seat
at home with her great hair, at

Eighty-eight-fifteen Appian Way,
Laurel Canyon—in Hollywood Hills, L A.
There she is,
perched on a pillow holding a tapestry.
While her cat, Telemachus, sits on his own pillow—

But only momentarily,
much chagrining cover photo guy,
Jim McCrary, photo maker of many iconic covers.

And ya know the piano’s
not far away. Maybe it’s
“Way Over Yonder,” or maybe
“It’s [just] Too Late.”

She had help (James, Joni, and more) recording
in Studio B. And isn’t it amazing
how more than fifty years later
I still know, I accurately remember
every word of every song to sing along.

Look both ways and let the magic of art and music take you where you want to go.
Mind the gaps, as crazy as it is, vinyl is coming back.

Friday Fictioneers for December 1st, 2023

For a December first kickoff, Fleur Lind and the sensational Rochelle, Mistress of the Friday Fictioneers Realm, joined forces in a flowerily display of automotive genius.

Click on the pic to taxi over to Madam R’s blog page for instructions on the care and feeding of planted stories of 100 words or fewer.

PHOTO PROMOT © Fleur Lind

Title: Advertising Inspiration
Genre: Fire Sky Fiction
Words: 100

***

 

It was all Christmassy in C-City.

I said, “Hey, Dewey. Let’s tow that old flatbed truck to your boutique and park it outside. You can put your potted plants on it and under the open hood. Maybe even displays or dressed mannequins in or on it. A Santa too, maybe?”

“It is not a boutique, Dad. Kind of, but not really. I don’t know if the city will allow it, but I can ask. It’s a great idea. How did you think of it?”

“When I woke up last Wednesday morning, it just came to me. Pure freakin’ magic. Right?”

***

 

Look both ways for ideas and plants.
Mind the gaps, steal like an artist, and bend the rules.

Click on Julie’s (Dewey to me) plants to read more aromatic #FF stories.

Photo courtesy of Fire Sky Arts, Colorado City, Texas

 

NaPoWriMo 2023 (Day 18)

Today, I am NaPo-challenged to compose an abecedarian poem – a poem in which the word choice follows the order of the alphabet. It may be a 26-word piece in alphabetical order (a boy can dance… etc.), or a poem of 26 lines with the first letter of the first word of each line following the order of the alphabet. I chose the latter.

I decided to free-style a poem using alphabetized band and singer names with comment.

Music by the Letters

ABBA set the stage for glam-bands
Blondie, Boston, or Brooks & Dunn: you choose
CCR Cream(s) Chicago, but love ‘em all
Dire Straits did the Walk of Life into self-destruction
Elephant Revival caught the White Rabbit best
Fleetwood Mac’s “Tusk” inspired my marathons
Grateful Dead’s name was Garcia’s dictionary find
Haddaway had his heyday in the nineties
Isaac Hays might have gotten off the Shaft, but
Journey, like some greats, never won a Grammy (dumb)
Kiss, likewise, but was named for “Psycho Circus”
Lynyrd Skynyrd, another no-Gram, not for Free Bird or ‘bama
Melanie still roller skates without a brand new key
Neil Young barely dances these days under a Harvest Moon
Otis Redding still longs for his songs from The Dock of the Bay
Patsy Cline still makes me Crazy and I Fall To Pieces
Queen rocks this boho as champions of rhapsody (no Grammy?)
Roy Orbison was a Traveler, but got me with Pretty Woman
Stealers Wheel stuck me in the middle with you looking in
T. Rex bangs a gong when I Get It On with Hot Love
Uriah Heep’s Lady in Black had some Easy Livin’
Village People remind me the Y.M.C.A. is In the Navy.
Willie Nelson will live forever On the Road Again
XTC sang Dear God and now is no more
Yes still thinks Love Will Find a Way, but hey ho,
ZZ Top bottoms the list like a Tush in La Grange.

Look both ways with music finding better days.
Mind the gaps and carful not to scratch them records.
Just what is a Grammy, anyway?

 

*Click on the NaPo 2023 button to see the challenge and to read more poems (not all are on prompt).

Monday’s Rune: The final week

Why so Happy?

As Hanukkah ends
Kwanzaa begins, and it is boxing day in Canada.
Because yesterday over two billion enlightened
of the eight billion humans alive
decide a religious thing and dispute
coffee cups and well wishes,
which must be specifically selfish.

It’s also the climaxing week of
collegiate football bowls
so schools can decide who to fire
or to obscenely overpay with locked down
contracts having nothing to do
with anything educational (or successful)
except that we are better than you—
more near neurotic selfishness. Yay,
we’re number one (so what?).

But it is serious business
for calendars. The end of another
elliptical orbital trip around the
minor star we call Sun,
and another 365 days bite the dust.

In the meantime, libraries close,
school music programs falter
or are cancelled to reduce cost,
and art blows in the wind.
Happy holidays. Congratulations,
it’s a wonderful life, Mister Potter.

Look both ways except this week.
For twenty-twenty-two, it’s over.
Mind the gaps for “what have we done?”

Now that is art.

Friday Fictioneers for September 16th, 2022

For mid-September, our fantastic Mistress of Friday Fictioneering fantasy, Rochelle, poked us with the picture of Pincushion Hakea flowers provided through the good graces of Trish Nankeville.

The lovely photo inspired my memory, and I considered a quote by Henry David Thoreau that Rochelle has posted on her blog in the past, it’s not what you look at that matters, it’s what you see. Some say it was written as, “The question is not what you look at, but what you see.” (From the essay, “Walking.”) Whatever—close enough. What you see is a good theme.

I’m fascinated by the work of people who see around us the things I miss: the artists and photographers who’s work I often borrow to enrich my world. Through their art, I get to see what they see: a lovely natural world.

Click on Trish’s photo of the red pincushion flowers to be transplanted into Rochelle’s blog where you can learn how to set your roots into the Wednesday, Friday Fictioneers writer community.

PHOTO PROMPT © Trish Nankeville

Genre: Autobiographical Fiction
Title: Thoreau’s Pincushion Hakea
Word Count: 100

***

We walked the path near the lake. Jay was a talented amateur photographer who did all his own film processing.

He said, “It’s like hunting. Look there. What do you see?”

I replied, “Weeds and stickers.”

We knelt and he spritzed water on the weeds.

“Look closer.”

I looked. “Wow. I didn’t even see the flowers much less that spider’s web. Now it all glistens.”

He said, “Everything is a subject or a scene. I use other things, lighting, angles, and point of view to enhance it. I do more in the lab. It’s the beauty of nature artfully staged.”

***

Look both ways. What you see matters.
Mind the gaps for the hidden fruits of nature’s beauty.

 

Click on Waken Pond to float over to the FF squares page where more wonderful stories are linked.