Art-Mark Rothko

I got here too late, my heart begun to soon and born too late,
shaped somewhere before patterns in Latte froth leveraged food into art, and deconstructed postmodern imagery into fractal pragmatism.
Outside, in a world that called to everyone but me,
alone, I made poems of snowflakes and wrapped my restless sentiments
In them for storage and self-preservation.
Unaware that while I waited fashion had de-re-un-dis
connected, reconstructed the symmetry of wit, erasing the t
No, not that one for that would leave – it – alone,
the other one commenting volumes in the absence of one letter.
Mapping in symbols the new social order, absent the viscera.
Elegantly sensi-mental, undisturbed, except by inference,
nothing that could make your fingers sticky,
smell of salted tears or hot sweat.
Rather stylish better dead than head I thought and returned to my snowflakes,
counting them to see how many were required to freeze each poem.
I wonder if I will see them breed, each frozen sentiment unfolded and placed with a flourish, by lyrical courtesans awaiting photo ops, on Bently’s grave, with a note explaining that something usefull had finally been derived From his work .


The poet brings not hurt or woe
save when the reader makes it,
but shares a sight found true within
turned into song to shape it.

If in the words you find that pain
arises as you sing it,
greet your tears with gratitude
your heart had strength to bring it.

Tho If you’re sure as sure can be
that cruelty is the poet,
just close the page, then step away
and add no voice to sow it.

Remember if you find a need
responding to chastise one
that you have left off caring to
make anger your companion.

when anger and defiance arise
perhaps instead of finding flaw
You’ll write a poets missive to
affirm again the timeless law.

What you can give, do give away
greet wrath without demanding
for cruelty is but pain denied
till healed by understanding.