Sunday, July 16, 2017

THE FIRES OF SUMMER - The Sunday Whirl / WORDS OF AN ARTIST - Sunday's Whirligig / Poets United Poets Pantry

The Sunday Whirl


the poet accepts the role           seduced       by the smell of the grease paint

dons his mask                 plays his part                  he feels his skin is no longer his own

digs into his past    fears he will be scorned    he is a virgin                           

this is his first time          he hides his face    in hopes he will not be recognized

hopes no one sees him     will he stay            or will he flee       

the storm gathers on the horizon             dark clouds threaten     the whole country dry

there is need of rain        wildfires burn        last year was bad

this year worse                we were warned     we did not listen

July 16, 2017    


Sunday's Whirligig


i am not a man               do not live in a monastery         follow no religion

i am a monk          in my cell                       stirring paint carefully     

applying to canvas  these paintings                i create                

are like pages of a journal hanging on the wall          struggling to be free        


at the end of the day                covered in paint     i step into my bath

the water takes on the colors     of the rainbow       red, blue, yellow    

purple orange and green   the water looks like fire    licking the edges             
the crow               black as night                          sits in the leafless tree

mocking me          most of what he says                is in his own language

no longer dirty                i listen to his message                know the value of his words

the soap rests                 in its’ bamboo holder                i slip into my role as wife 

which also hangs on the wall      waiting                           we travel together in dreams

skin against skin     endless kisses                        moonlight shines through the window

July 15, 2017

“Imagination will often carry us to worlds that never were. But without it we go nowhere.”  -Carl Sagan





Sumana Roy said...

Nice canvases, both. "he feels his skin is no longer his own"...My favorite line from the first one.

Thotpurge said...

Wonderful scenes.. the masquerade of poet, as wife.. true life!

Sherry Blue Sky said...

Wonderful, Annell. The fires of summer are burning here, too,whole towns being evacuated, lots os loss of life for domestic and wild animals. Horrible. In your second poem, i love the switch from artist to wife at day's end.

Anonymous said...

We all wear masks, play roles, and you dance through them with ease and a very light foot. Clapping,


Donna@LivingFromHappiness said...

My I love the pictures you paint with words....I loved both but oh the first one seduced me as I read it over and was the first line that drew me in and kept me hostage.

gillena cox said...

Luv the way Wife emerges after the paint has been washed away. Magnificent piece of writing Annell
Happy you dropped by my Sunday Standard today

Much love...

Sanaa Rizvi said...

This is my new favourite from you, Annell ❤️

brudberg said...

The wildfires should be a warning shouldn't they (or should have been a long time ago)

R.K. Garon said...

Another wonderful visit, reading your work.

Aurora said...

These are my favorites:

"i am a monk in my cell stirring paint carefully"

"at the end of the day covered in paint i step into my bath

the water takes on the colors of the rainbow red, blue, yellow

purple orange and green the water looks like fire licking the edges"

"we travel together in dreams"

Mary said...

Ah, the fires of summer seem to get worse every year. If ONLY we would begin to listen...

Wendy Bourke said...

Two fascinating pieces - each of them from different perceptions - but both of them, compellingly perceptive. The second one, in particular,I found quite mesmerizing. I think I spotted an extended metaphor swirling in those colors - brilliantly rendered.

Rene Foran said...

Writing, painting...escape tunnels, aren't they. Love your poetry

Old Egg said...

How beautifully introspective both poems were. How fitting that both artist and poet were portrayed to play their part in the writing which you do and I particularly like the way the crow talks to you; hopefully to give you inspiration.

Susan said...

What a pairing--words of a poet and of an artist! I hope the poet will stay and witness the fires in person and words. I hope the art keeps on speaking and the birds and the artist and the wife, too. Interestingly, the next midweek motif is MASKS.

colleen said...

The poet and painter are like shaman travelers of the inner world. A whirl of a read for sure.

kaykuala said...

masks are meant to obscure
like words without meaning

Often used to good effect in creating some form of diversion of strategies!


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