For the Artists
Blue Eyes
His fingers smelled
of linseed oil.
Sometimes he'd forget,
Brush them through his hair.
When he'd remember,
his chin did a quick swift up.
Black hair would fly
como un gallo
and fall back into place
between brush strokes.
His guitar was never too far.
And neither was I
Whenever
I got the chance
To watch
the artist with
Blue eyes,
Blue jeans.
His models were
Malo album covers.
It was '72 and all that
played that summer was
"Suavecito" and
Carol King's voice
"So far away"
by her piano.
When I think of him
today, I would have
liked to have worn a
blue silk kimono
nothing more.
Be the instrument
that brought on his
love for cobalt.
Amber Eyes
The artist
with amber eyes
sculpts soapstone.
He chisels.
Resin retained
on fingertips.
Blows gently
the creases.
Particles fly up
into the studio
fall on objects
that call out
for his touch.
When he is done,
I become his
unfinished statuette.
Soapstone Dust;
our only blanket.
My Eyes
Jessica tells me when
she is old like me, she too
will grow babies.
I tell her that she,
her brothers and sister
are Mona Lisas.
She says,
"Mami what is a Mona Lisa?"
I say "She is the
baby grown out of
great artists."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Blue John
Hey John
You could call this poem
Cobalt.
But it is Blue John
Blue.
Indigo notes
are Blue John
Blue.
Guitar weeps
for George's
blistered fingers.
Not melancholy.
Just Blue.
The Guitar
is Blue John
Blue.
Meanies are Blue.
You named
them Blue John.
Yoko's frozen tears
are Blue John.
Fired bullets
streak Blue John.
Red sirens take us to
code Blue John
Blue.
|
