Wherefore Art Thou Now?

The gazette said I’d find you here,
curled up under the bridge of concrete
that kept you here.  Poets abandoned
the crates of time and filled minstrel
halls with their ugly voices unable to
mimic even a Meijer brand chime.
How sad that painters all paint on
Bamboo and all sculptures wear
masks of triangles.  Where our art
on another’s found, as trappings of
bits or bytes compress our favorite
sounds.  Before, so in template
imbued, that wicker baskets could
be molded from poetry’s muse,
painting a profound picture, sculpture
the likeness of man, the flesh to
the world of unerring stone turned.
Indelible still sits that soft mask of element
unbreached, unascended by man’s
pitter patter and ephemeral reach.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s