Mag 232 — describe that art, name that tune

That song has a familiar ring to it,

a don't ever forget I can't-get-

no-satisfaction, put-your-hand-in-the-

hand-of-the-man-who-stilled-the-water,

lucy-in-the-sky-with-diamonds, you're

watching the-Rocky-and-Bullwinkle-Show,

by-the-time-we-got-to-Woodstock-we-

were-half-a-million-strong, eight-miles-

high, ebony-and-ivory kind of feel to it.

My X the rocker used to play it. But,

damn, I just cannot name that tune.



Written for The Mag: Mag 232 that inspired with the above image prompt
(Keith Haring).

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Poetics: Sofia

Sofia was born with eyes
the color of the sea; she
stared at her folk in silence —
no coos or cries or
sleepy sighs.
·Only eyes·
looking.

Sofia's hair was soft black
but later changed hue, shining
like black pearls in the hot sun —
no pins or bows or
adornments.
·Only braids·
flying.

Sofia's heart was carefree
and her dancing in the sand
brought joy to her small village —
no boys or beaus or
dance partners.
·Only girl·
twirling.

Sofia's spirit was searching
for the source that blued the sea,
for the songs inside the sand —
no more or less or
in between.
·Only soul·
longing.

Sofia's calling was lifelong
as she grew in faith and girth
in the abbey lost in fog —
no hearth or mirth or
peaceful soul.
·Only eyes·
looking.
                  MLydiaM ~ January 2012

Submitted for Poetics at dVerse Poets. This week we are asked by Victoria C. Slotto to consider the art of Fernando Botero. From her options I chose: "Write an Ekphrastic poem on a piece of art by Botero."
The piece above is Mother Superior by Fernando Botero.

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2012: a poem

 

BlueFaceGirl by Joan de Bot

2012

Yet ether coming into form,
skin turning from cosmic blue to
something golden as filtered rays
pierce the newness of you,
changing you
in the hissing crack of dawn.

Damp layers of your forming
foaming, then laying down cell
upon cell, as foam puzzles and
teases out the face
the world will see, with
an ear like a conch to hear
terrorist chatter as well as
the music of the spheres, with
a small blue eye that is seed-like
because you see in many ways,
with that mane of locks
tied by blue ribbons resembling
snakes from a galaxy you knew.

The rest of you still becoming
underneath an array of colors
you gathered at midnight and
held fast because they
made you giggle. 
You want to remember
that simple joy later--
when your heart beats
for the longing masses,
when your core hardens
around the soft center of
hope that welcomed you.

When you have finally shed
your swirling cloak of colors
will we see more armor?--
Or is that claw you clutch
with your delicate hand
not armour, but a weapon? --
Or not a weapon, but what
you want to fall upon
to save us from ourselves?

                           MLydiaM ~ January 2012

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