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Poets
Artists
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ArtPoems 2018 Gallery
Salon A
In The Caves of Chauvet
Inspiration for Honey Costa’s “The First Artist”
The Chauvet-Pont-d'Arc Cave in the Ardèche
Department of southern France contains
some of the best-preserved cave paintings in
the world dating between 37,000 and 28,000
years ago.
Deep inside him
story swells
struggling so fiercely
to find its way
through the knots and loops
of his wakening brain.
In these indigo caves
and flickering flames,
his fingers blindly meet
the cool clean
Chauvet walls.
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Something he needs to do-
there is no name for it yet,
no alphabet or words.
So he dips down into
the smeared blood and mustard
flower mash,
places a tentative finger,
curves a fine line;
remembers the wild buffalo
and boar of yesterday's hunt;
adds haunches, tail,
splintery hooves,
and there it is:
his memory,
his first story,
himself.
~ Chris Godwin
Paddling with Dolphins: A Story Poem
Inspired by Buck Ward’s “Paddling with Dolphins”
Grandma falls.
Walking across our living room, she takes a tumble.
I watch for concussion, bruises—
Nothing broken but her confidence.
Her spirits lag like canoes under the eaves.
I decide the only cure for this is kayaking.
Rising in pre-dawn, I wake her.
In the morning mist, we hook boats to bicycles,
Pedal to the Sound, twin ships bobbing in our wake.
We set off in cool air and warm water,
Trust our senses to guide us,
Sloshing waves and dripping paddles our companions.
Slowly, surely, we flow through the brine,
Breathe in tandem as we work toward wholeness—
Our sole destination.
Grandma gasps, loud, and I startle.
Turning about, I see her, safe behind me,
Awash in the golden peach of dawn—
Paddling with dolphins.
~ Holly L. McEntyre
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The First Artist by Honey Costa ArtPoems 2018
Paddling with Dolphins by Buck Ward ArtPoems 2018
Villanelle of the Senior Tennis Round Robin
Inspiration for William Kramer’s “Dust and Clay”
Returning each morning to dust and clay
We brave the ibuprophened shore
To beat oblivion one more day.
On court number one we start the fray
Not waiting for Time to settle the score,
Returning each morning to dust and clay.
Life’s easy volleys all put away,
Above the waist-high net we soar
To beat oblivion one more day.
We spin and slice to dupe our prey
With chips and drops and lobs galore,
Returning each morning to dust and clay;
No ace or smash to ease our way,
But rallies longer than ever before
To beat oblivion one more day.
So toward the final court we’ll play
Tomorrow and forevermore,
Returning each morning to dust and clay
To beat oblivion one more day.
~ Joseph Pacheco
Dust and Clay by William Kramer ArtPoems 2018
The Last Woman on Earth Works Her Magic
Inspired by Lawrence Massing’s “Circadian Rhythm Continuum”
The scent of rain
hangs heavy
on this empty
smoldering sphere.
Silence fills the air;
it echoes memories
of what had been,
of what is lost.
A mournful moon
hovers,
waits, watches.
Now is the time.
The rain falls like tears
relieved of grief.
I wander and search
for clues.
From my gris gris bag
I toss my alchemy
on ashy sand.
Dead brush
Brown twigs
Dry leaf
detritus of war:
A sign
A circle
on Earth vanquished by man.
Ghosts of life leave designs:
A continuum
A sign
A circle
Like a golden halo
the sun, a blazing orb
rises.
Hope emerges
From my bag of magic.
~ Joyce Berrian Ferrari
Circadiam Rhythm Continuum by Lawrence Massing ArtPoems 2018
Wilding
Inspiration for Scott Guelcher’s “Wilding Memories”
Swinging on a fence
drunk on the grand ecstasy
Head thrown back laughing
drunk on splendors of being
glorious nine year old boys
Zooming from one laugh
to another, back again
Cartwheels, back flips, jumps
Pirates fencing with sticks
Beautiful laughter, pure glee
Brown forms lithe, limber
Uproars blasted in Patois
shouts for sheer pleasure
shouts over wild and frantic
barking from one boy’s mongrel
The dog back and forth
tail semaphores his mad glee
He must find the place
the place with the greatest fun
That Illusion moving always
Dusk glows, unwelcomed
Mothers arrive in housecoats
greeting their neighbors
Calling home their warriors
shouting down cries of protest
Please, it’s not dark
We need just ten minutes more
just five minutes more
I promise I’ll do my homework
I’ll even wash the dishes
Just five minutes more
Five more minutes of freedom
Five minutes to run
climb, chase, laugh, roll on the ground
Drunk on being a nine year old boy
~ Dan Reed England
Wilding Memories by Scott Guelcher ArtPoems 2018
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Barns
Inspired by Barbara Gage Mulford’s “Northern Maine Barn”
Why do I feel longing when I pass
a weathered barn along the road?
A barn with the sweet straw smell
of summer and scarred red boards
tucked into a field where horses
graze and children climb split-rail
fences close enough to lean and
touch the horse’s mane.
When I wander country roads
with nowhere special to go and
happen upon an abandoned barn,
I want to gaze awhile at the
gray patina, once dressed red,
the splintered boards, some still
hanging, and the jagged hole
in the roof that lets birds in.
Doors unlatched, one can almost
smell the animals once housed
in stalls, cats curled asleep
on sultry afternoons, and imagine
the glint of pitchforks above bales
of hay, and know a community
where neighbors came together
to build a barn.
Perhaps an abandoned barn is
a vision of the past disappearing
a little each season as it ages—
Barns slick with rain, framed in
autumn leaves or blanketed with
snow echo in the distant laughter
of children flopping on hay,
piled high after harvest.
~Lorraine Walker Williams
Northern Maine Barn by Barbara Gage Mulford ArtPoems 2018
