to capture the yellow heart
of the brilliant iris
van Gogh cheats
with a brighter paint


To My Fellow Poets on WordPress

Sometimes, I wish I were another writer
That I could tease with scintillation
Warm bodies, odors, and tastes with grand fruition
Could move using music and frame colored mirages
Use a more daring line break
Than these stable horizontals

But for now, this is my poetry
This is me

Finding it hard to articulate with a minimal palette
I thank you for showing me new boundaries;
Some glorious osmosis is bound to happen!



A sculptor who abhorred the commonplace
Decided to construct an empty face
Where two eyes should be there was only air
A frightful, beseeching, see-through stare
And a body contorted, twisted and black
Bronze dripped and stretched by all care’s lack
A statue more wretched than any man
Nailed center square and made to stand
To harangue all passers with a gaping plea:
“Be glad your creator loved you more than me!”


Museum guard

Jeffery is a security guard at the Nelson Museum of Art located in a rundown neighborhood in Washington, D.C. The museum is managed by an NGO and due to the economic recession, had to cut its staff, so he is the only guard on duty. He’s seen paintings of gumball machines and lesser known contemporaries of Monet make it on the walls, usually for two seasons, when it used to be one. He doesn’t know what each painting costs, because the appraiser and archivist, Caroline, went on maternity leave two weeks ago and doesn’t know if she’ll be back.

He’s seen all types of people browse the art, some with blank faces, others squinting nearsightedly as if they could find some hidden meaning behind a lithograph if they just tried hard enough. But silver-haired Magdelenia, who visits every Friday at two o’clock, breezes by, smiling at each piece — whether cheerful or horrendously gloomy – and greets each one like an old friend.

She speaks to them, one by one: “Hello, it’s Magdelenia again. How are you today?” and “Did you get any unusual visitors this week?”

One Friday, Magdelenia enters with plodding steps, dressed in black with a veil before her eyes. She sits down on the bench in the middle of the room, a red plush one that children like to climb over, and waits.

Jeffrey imagines that the paintings would crowd all over her if they could, saying things like “What’s wrong, Magdelenia?” and “Please smile, Magdelenia!” But they can’t, so Jeffrey pulls a napkin he saved from lunch in his pants’ pocket. From his customary corner in the gallery, he strides over to press it into Magdelenia’s hands. Her fingers feel as worn as parchment paper.

“Thank you,” Magdelenia says, and Jeffrey smiles kindly upon her.