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ArtPoems 2019 Gallery
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An Irish Dream
    Inspired by Carrie Moloney's
        “Kinsale Harbour in County Cork”

The Kinsale Harbour is serene
No winds are blowing
Wild flowers charm the beach
The sea has retreated once again
Leaving the boats to rest in mud
Nothing around is moving
The people inside the shoreline cottage
Wait for calm and peace to come
To their trouble torn country
The quiet ocean scene
Seems out of place
When compared to the city streets
Still left in rubble
With sidewalks stained with blood 
As the water flows in
The jetty rocks get wet
Like cheeks from shed tears
Soon the boats will float again
Just as the nation’s spirit will rise
In hopes that peace will rise
With the coming of the new tide.

    - Henry Heitmann
Marilyn Monroe’s Toaster
    Inspiration for Rebecca Sandbek's "Marilyn"

Marilyn Monroe’s toaster
placed on the auction block
at Sotheby’s. Curved silver
reminiscent of white shoulders, 
and red, luminous lips.

Slender fingers
slipping white bread 
into slots,
polished pearl tips
pressing the slide and
adjusting the knob.

Marilyn waits, 
pours steaming coffee, 
adds two spoons of sugar,
and cream, cream like 
her complexion, her thighs
in the photograph—
up-blown skirt.

Toaster pops, Marilyn 
reaches for a plate, 
knife and butter. 
Butters warm toast,
licks her fingers.

Perhaps, a few crumbs 
still remain in the steel-slotted tray.
A bidder raises his paddle, 
buying more than a fifties toaster.

    - Lorraine Walker Williams
Marilyn   by Rebecca Sandbek   ArtPoems 2019
Parking Lot Panorama
    Inspired by Sue Dunham’s “Sunset from the Parking Lot”

Rushing out of Walmart, she glances up,
sees a riot of color in the sky.
Heliotrope, crimson, fuscia, gold
Suspended there, 
this stunning canvas to behold.
The meanness of her day
fades away.
Grocercies in her cart,
hungry kids waiting to be fed,
dirty laundry left lying on the bed,
undone jobs that lie ahead…
All lose their power to compel her
to hurry home.

She cannot bear to leave
this bit of grace.
Her days are long, but never long enough
for all she still must do.
It seems
no time remains for beauty in her life.
So now, she stands serenely.
She waits, as colors change,
sees scarlet added to the palette 
in the deepening dusk.
She watches while the golden orb slips silently beneath
the splendor of this panorama
she now owns.

    - Sandy Greco 

Sunset from the Parking Lot   by Sue Dunham   ArtPoems 2019
The Deer
    Inspiration for Babs Snyderman’s “Drink Deeply Now” 

As the deer runs through the forest
seeking the quenching waters 
of the leaf-covered stream 
so we run over hot concrete 
seeking the quenching taste 
of mercantile green. 

The deer runs free from stream to stream 
as we sit fixed, only daring to dream
of forests and glens, our real world
not even wondering if or when
the dream will or can replace
the suffocating fen. 

Do we mock those who dare to touch
our feared but wanted sight? 
Unknown others, why are they free 
to breathe deeply of unpolluted air
and not share 
our own polluted plight?

Nodding across wooden mantles
holding endless paper sheafs,
watching for the witching hour,
the signal of prescribed relief,
moving from one darkness to another, 
from upright to pillowed sleep.
Light fades, but restless sleep
brings no forests or waters deep,
but piercing blackness
pricking the ache within.
Shall we acknowledge?
Dare we seek?

For a fleeting moment 
eyes close to follow the deer’s soft steps,  
follow the rocky trail 
toward the healing freedom,
the impossible dream
of the leaf-covered stream.

For a moment, too brief a moment, 
we stand at the edge of a shimmering sea
or is it lethe calling me and thee?
But look:
No concrete, no paper sheafs
drowning the sought-for dream.

Daylight shatters the curtain,
the deer departs, no forest or glen,
no leaf-covered stream.
Can we acknowledge the grief
that marks the concrete ribbons, 
the wooden mantles with paper sheafs? 

    - Robert Hilliard
Drink Deeply Now   by Babs Snyderman   ArtPoems 2019
Creating the paradise is easiest:
Usually you pick a place everyone else overlooked,
That goes against the current fashion,
Has some very special things: unspoiled beaches 
Filled with shells, a great big sanctuary
For animals, birds, trees and man 
To be as close as they can ever be
And a beautiful bridge to get you there.

Then you pick out your spot and build on it
For far less the cost you hope
It will someday be worth,
And you revel in the restrictions and the limitations
You would never have put up with elsewhere ---
Government telling people what to do 
To keep other people from pouring in
And ruining your Eden.

Maintaining the paradise is harder:
The place is discovered, it’s hot, everyone wants it,
The price of land and houses, everything, rises 
Like the Australian Pines you want to topple;
Builders burst out of their woodwork 
Like beavers before a flood,
Demolishing and replacing the bungalows 
Of those who loved paradise first ---
The battle to contain them rages
And you choose the side of necessary ordinance.

Everyone’s renting and buying and suddenly
There are never vacancies and the whole world,
It seems, wants to taste and drink 
The milk of your paradise.

Leaving the paradise is hardest ---
The anaconda snake of pick-up trucks, campers and convertibles 
Slowly choking Periwinkle Way
Suddenly relaxes, 
A tiny space appears between two SUV’s 
And like a wild animal set free —
You make your left turn.

    - Joe Pacheco
Thoughts About Paradise While Waiting To Make A Left Turn Onto Periwinkle Way At Height of Season
    Inspired by Susan Grunin's “Waterfall in Paradise”
The Big White Chevy
    Inspiration for Kenneth Vinton's "The Transcendental Chevy"

The snow falls in quiet cotton balls;
covers our street in silence.
All is white-
houses, trees;
the sky is colorless.
A golden glow from the car ahead
lights a path down the road
as we cruise
in our big white Chevy.

In the center back seat 
I see me sitting stiffly
between brother and sister.
I am dressed like an over-bundled angel
in my white coat
and white hat with the red sash.
Christmas Eve,
Going to Grandma’s and Grandpa’s,
A strange thing is occurring 
in my ten year old mind.
I am lifted from my body;
I watch it sit silently, wonder
if I am going crazy, and should I tell.
Would they believe what I know?
The soul does not need the body.
Would they laugh or put me away
where the relatives wouldn’t know.

Is it happening to them?
Are we all floating,
outside our shells?
Better keep still.
I watch the show
outside, the snow falls, forms a white blanket
It cushions the Chevy.
Down the quiet road.
no one speaks.

    - Joyce Berrian Ferrari
Kinsale Harbour in County Cork   by Carrie Moloney   ArtPoems 2019
Waterfall in Paradise   by Susan Grunin   ArtPoems 2019
Trancendental Chevy   by Kenneth Vinton   ArtPoems 2019