We played and stomped the ground on the range we once roamed
Squeezing music in and out made a wheezy moan
Breezes teasing reedy grasses, weaving a tune
Down-to-earth as cow pies on a June afternoon
Work and pray, live on hay, you’ll get pie in the sky when you die.
Seer’s eyes prognosticate
Reading signs of prophesy
Previewing what comes to be
As yesterday’s ills recede
There’s no present. There’s only the immediate future and the recent past.
“Art is beauty, the perpetual invention of detail, the choice of words, the exquisite care of execution.” —Théophile Gautier
If it’s true beauty is more than skin-deep
Is it in fat’s, muscle’s, nerve’s, or bone’s keep
Does beauty through the human form seep
Pooling deep as dreams in duvets of sleep
The human soul needs actual beauty more than bread
―D. H. Lawrence
Lend not your ears to lies
Look out for tells and tics
The ears hear artifice
Eyes can read lies on lips
The poet is a liar who always speaks the truth.
Would ‘Sunflowers’ shun the light
‘Starry Night’ be canvas white
Blood be spilled by palette knife
Were life without art still life
Life imitates art far more than art imitates Life.
Demagogues flouting the law
Horseless carriage runs on straw
Holy man worships a whore
It’s late, but wait, there is more
Armageddon will start with the news media.
“Take those flying reindeer, Santa’s red and white color scheme, and his jolly disposition, for example. They are all probably linked to the use of hallucinogenic toad stool in ancient rituals.” —Roger Highfield
‘Twas the night before Christmas of a hazardous year
Santa was safe at home with the clan of Claus
Elves were loading gifts in Santa’s new sleigh
Reindeer were dreaming in their stalls
As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly, when they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky. So up to the house-top the coursers they flew, with the sleigh full of toys, and St. Nicholas too.
―Clement Clarke Moore
“Beauty is an ecstasy; it is as simple as hunger. There is really nothing to be said about it. It is like the perfume of a rose: you can smell it and that is all.” —W. Somerset Maugham
Does the blossom sniff the bee
In their pollinating ecstasy
If we breathe the scent of goodly grass, the fragrance of spices, the aroma of good fruits, we pronounce a blessing over the pleasure.
―Shmuel Yosef Agnon