I’ve heard the echoes, chased the shadows, danced with the reveries of phantom caresses. Retreat with me to a safe space ‘neath the snow-laden burrows behind the curtain of remembrances where we will carve out the annals of innocence and mirth, and ascend the smoky hills by night’s end. Art: “The Road in front of Saint-Siméon Farm in Winter” Claude Monet #FrenchArt #writing #art #painting #Artwork #literature #creativewriting #poetry #artists #poem #ClaudeMonet #imp

Our lines were drawn by buried affections Gilded by quivering skins That knew estrangement, But that soon would find oneness On a path illumined only by Light that space had abandoned. Repose had ceased to placate the weary Even when the journey seemed unbroken And the hours fell back upon their slopes. We will refuse to sigh until The dusk of negation is suspended, Until I can feel all your promises Slithering in my thickened hand, Restless as the leaves aflutter,

Say without feeling, Do without knowing, Intimacy gently seeped through the door Lapped upon our footstep. Sing when the valley subsides And hidden dust becomes Our recompense For not being. Art: “The Road in front of Saint-Simeon Farm in Winter” Claude Monet #art #Artwork #creativewriting #poetry #poem #ClaudeMonet #impressionism #Artist #Poet

Faithfully, The impression of your hand in mine Lingers in a pool of usurped moments As I cast my shadow down the hill Where I coveted your face With searching lips For the first and last time. The centuries will hear my beseech And expand as tunnels inundated with the Dust of the beloved and the fallen. The ferns will outgrow their bodies And begin to sashay nimbly above the Moon-glazed swards that birthed them. Gratuitously, The tortoise will remember to smile

Where we are going, Enigmas await With hands extended Bearing ripe stones, Expressionless cabochon Droplets of stilted rain, Or a petty curse from The fountains below. Beyond this threshold You are masked, Surrounded by ever-advancing Entrails of an abandoned Spring. Without movement You’ve become an efflorescent statue Mocking time and Pilfering its colors Until the last one is drawn Patiently and elegantly devoured, Just in time for the advent Of the weak

Down at the alameda We shook hands, Laughed, Told stories, Then laughed some more, Until we forgot. It was the place Where life happened unconditionally, Where leaves found their rhythm In errant breezes And paused to collect A tear or two; Where I once found a shell With ridges decayed Punctured with a tinge of lust That tickled the jaws Of feral plum seeds Stripped of their memories And spewed forth From the mouths of happy beasts. Art: “The Garden of Essai,

We hunted the winds and quartered them, Dutifully placing them at the edges of Our darkened peripheries, Marking an approximate end To every course we Had ever hoped to surmount. With irregular bursts of passion We ignited flares to Illuminate the history of Many a journey lost, Only to dissipate back into Hazy embarkations, Blurred shorelines And muffled soundings. Art: “A Seascape, Shipping by Moonlight” Claude Monet #art #Artwork #poetry #Monet #poem #impressi

Here, Cosmic distances Have kissed their limits Hello and goodbye. And ‘ere the moment They are at last embowered By these watchful arms A keeper emerges in the offing Without a word, Speaking only with compassionate hands That toil ceaselessly in iridescent shadows Cast by a remote awareness Of where the smallest path once lay bare, Dutifully awaiting a chance at perfection. Art: “Verger en Fleurs” (Orchard in Bloom) Claude Monet #art #Nature #OrchardinBloom #p

I am a child Of hands apart. I sway to scattered muses Tethered to reluctant arms. I scamper down rubato paths Lined with fine green mist And twisted blades Of fiberless grass. I have a meeting With the elders of open worlds And free-roaming beginnings. I will reunite with friends And sing them my joys. What lies beyond this towering hillside I may never know, Or want to know. Art: “Spring, Plum Blossoms, Pontoise” Camille Pissaro #FrenchArt #art #CamillePissa

Autumn resides here, Beginning just around the bend, Emanating from errant leaflets And contrite winds. Art: “Autumn on the Seine at Argenteuil” Claude Monet #art #AutumnontheSeineatArgenteuil #poetry #Monet #poem #impressionism #NaturePoem

Love becomes this field. Gratitude becomes the thousandth hand That beckons freedom through displacement, While earth revels in voluptuous wonder. Art: “Poppies near Vétheuil” Claude Monet #art #painting #PoppiesnearVétheuil #poetry #poem #ClaudeMonet #impressionism

As the winds subsist, as the horizon broods, a faint luminosity guides us along ever-shifting and inconstant paths, nocturnal awakenings and re-awakenings, successive alignments across avenues both well-worn and forgotten in time, alien dream-like tableaux reified into vaguely-familiar vignettes of journeys past. Art: “A Seascape, Shipping by Moonlight” Claude Monet #art #painting #poetry #Monet #poem #impressionism #seascape #moonlight

Engulf me, O winter’s yawn With your gleams of evanescent glory. Immobilize me in your infinite knowing, And tell me your story. If you find me astray, Bear me up with haste. Reveal to me the end of self, Through stones your precipitation graced. Take me through endless mirrored corridors, Where the howl of legends echo each season. Remember their fables when ages apart, Until I find, in your breath, my reason. Art: “Village in the Snow” Claude Monet #art #painting

Somewhere in the recesses of wayward thoughts I approach the intersection where the Cafe of Remembrances once stood. I drink the last of its vestiges and Beckon the street for a toast, To ends and to beginnings and to the Place where the nocturnes took repose Just below voluptuous bosoms flush with Smoke and light. Art: “Queensboro Bridge” Julian Alden Weir #nocturne #tonalism #poetry #impressionism #queensborobridge #JulianAldenWeir

Fix my movements with your anxious glare. Immobilize my arms in a labyrinth of Soft, dewy tentacles Engorged with a desire that chooses not to see. Bound my feet with jesses of liquid lavender As you trace meandering paths of pink tafetta Across my undulating chest. Move until my breath eludes me, Until everything Is alien. Art: “Dancers” Edgar Degas #art #poetry #impressionism #dancers #erotica #Degas