If Turnips Were Swords

Progress

If wishes were horses

beggars would ride,

those not lost that is

in a good book,

the lowly spirited away

to another place,

another time  

only to find

upon their return

books had gone the way

of horses, wishes

only words

on bound

printed pages

in the hands

of beggars. 

 

line dance

I Posed For Matisse

He uncoils me slowly like a skein of yarn

paying out a beat behind his eyes,

worn panes of beach glass that scour

the days remaining for feeble sifted light

drawing his hand along like a merry piper

through winding Hamlin streets,

unruly fingers confounded by buttons

hale and nimble once again fat

graphite rolled and balanced grip loose

and brash floating just above an empty ballroom

floor to strains of a silent waltz

fancied played in some distant place

while my skin pools in goose flesh my

bobbin spun free of thread hip, breasts and neck

described in a perfect dearth of line, 

God struck mute as I slip demurely behind the screen.