Dee Rimbaud 2005 All Rights Reserved

Vincent

Theo,
the sunflowers hang their yellow heads
like tired dogs.
The skies are muddy
and the drawbridge aches
for a yellow cart to pass over.
The earth is miserable
like a wet dog
that no one welcomes in.
I hear from Gauguin
that his health
is sure to collapse,
like a thatched roof
trying to bear up
under another night’s
heavy snowfall.
He may have to reduce
the price of his paintings.
As for my prices...well, you know
that story as well
as you know the inside
of an empty
purse.

I long for the pinkness
of peach trees
to awaken my senses.
For now I tie my easel down
and hold onto it
with my left hand
as if it were a ship’s wheel
in a heaving sea.
The spray of rain
leaves the world varnished.
Even brothels
cannot offer the beauty
a rain brings
to a field.
No clearing in a jungle
can compare
to clouds opening,
and sunlight spilling through them
the way that honey spills
from a pitcher.
The winds could shred
a man like thistle.
But what has a man
to hold onto
if not his
work?

 

Bob Bradshaw
Copyright 2005

 

Bob Bradshaw is a programmer living in Redwood City, CA. He is a huge fan of the Rolling Stones, whose work casts a longer shadow each year. Recent and forthcoming work of his can be found at Poems Niederngasse, Slow Trains, Red River Review, Foliate Oak, Tryst, VLQ, Tattoo Highway, The Paumanok Review and Circle Magazine.


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