July 27.21: Coping

Modesty compels me

to unamended truth:

my talents are unbounded,

to lie would be uncouth.

As painter I achieve

the heights of bruise and groan;

in DIY Olympics

my prowess stands alone.

I don’t even have to aim

at microscopic spot,

it’s bull’s-eye for the blob

where drop cloth covers not.

Forever placid swan,

both my graced left feet

entwine within the ladder,

reliably tout de suite;

clutching for my life

is my practiced well-honed skill,

a teeter and grab,

and I am upright still!

My TA-DAs are unheard,

resounding nonetheless;

I curtsy in official

full-palette painting dress.

I put my whole self in my work —

that’s very plain to see;

my genius also makes me put

my work all over me:

as some folks wear their feelings

on sleeves, in public view,

just so I wear my colors

on elbow and on shoe.

Unframed, my art’s admired

by critics, one and all,

exclaiming how I even get

some painting on the wall.

 

As you know, dear reader, I have solemnly sworn to never ever paint an ant-sized bathroom again. So I’m tackling people-sized places. The weather has encouraged me to stay indoors and, since my writer’s muse has been suffering from some malaise, I have turned to my ever-ready home improvement muse.

Nothing testifies to progress more convincingly than a mound of used painter’s tape. Detaching it from me was a matter best left unsung: Woman vs Tape is not a pretty story.

 

 

July 24.21: Coping

Microbially small against the clouds,

a fearless speck of bird

whose fury I could feel

jetted in short,

tense,

jabbing

zig-zag;

the massive hawk,

wide-winged

sky stalker,

bucked,

twisted,

dodged.

I held my breath,

afraid, almost,

to think that

what matters

is not our size

but what we defend.

 

 

July 7.21: Coping

Street art has found a place

in cultural domain;

the spider looks upon it

with the master’s cold disdain.

His webby muse inspires

despite the hours of tedium

to pattern and to form

with gossamer as medium.

In gallery of flowerpots

the moon and sun elide,

performatively joined

on thinnest thready slide.

By night the moon plucks lightly

each string in placid rondo;

by day a somersaulting sun

cavorts in bright glissando.

Known only to the artist

where spinnings stir and start,

sufficient to the self

is ephemera of the art.

So the noiseless patient spider,

in retreat of sweet alyssum,

abjures the common cult

of crass commercialism.

 

With apologies and thanks to Walt Whitman’s

“A Noiseless Patient Spider.”