Poems

Is this the winter of our love? Oh, how I ponder and yearn its spring. That meeting by chance, the fleeting glance, the warmth of touch on skin. So enthused were we — blue sky, clear sea. Paired eagles danced in flight. Entwined we fell, the thrill of it all; from afar, twin stars in the night. Autumn warned — we took no heed. The sun’s subdued gaze withdrawn. Falling leaves, fleeing fowl, howling winds from the north came on. The earth turned cold. Soft, burning snow — betrayal that deeply slights. Tempers glowed, admonishments flowed, like devilish ghosts of the night. Soon a high sun. Birds coaxed will come. Despair displaced, then gone. Love reignites where once it took flight. Seek love that endures like a swan’s.

Flowers in bloom fragrance the wind. Birds in flight at dawn would sing. Pressed palm primed with dye, patterns on cave ceiling, like stars in the night sky. Our bodies sway to rhythmic tones, coaxed from clapping hands and flutes of hollowed bones. And on Cave walls depicted to forever endure, animals who's fossils you see, remnants of creatures I once saw. And as Millenia pass and populations grow. There will be those who toil and a small elite who sow. Roles apparent in colour and cut of cloth. One emulating the display of the peacock, the other the cloak of the moth. We too shall flesh the bones of fear, myth and superstition, your mind controlled by men in gilded robes wielding Religion. It will be done through venerated stroke of artisan brush, ideas veiled in chant and wafted scent of amber and musk. You will see this art in every path you cross, housed in decorated temples, church and mosque And when you die, in your finery you’ll be lain, the poor, the wealthy, the warrior in chain. Then as millennia pass, your remains exhumed, coffin lid prised, contents visually consumed. You’d be gone, but your treasures will still be here, finely crafted jewellery, gold leaf woven into thinning hair. For none of these treasures would have found other haven There may be a father above, but there’s obviously no art in Heaven. Now finally Art reasserts through explosion- with music, dance, fashion, food, architecture, photography and pictures in motion It’s not a question of what it is, more to the point is what it does. Art yearns simplicity, pleasing man is an irrelevance. So from instinctive movement to the choreography of dance. From the complexity of Baroque, to simpler Romance. This move will confine harmonic frequency, four chords now define most Western pop music, eventually a lone bell in the distance will chime only Middle C. We are moving away from the Gaudi, the complex, the shiny and bright. Nothing beats a photo developed in Basic Black & White. Look how Abstract obscures the norm. The way too that Cubism adulterates and disfigures true form. Now dot follows dot, like a matrix printer deployed. Pointillism with ones and zeros, where matter precedes void. Kusama can’t avoid it, neither can Hirst They all yield to this basic law, like a man quenching thirst. Everything we can conceptualise, hear, feel and see reveals art's true path to basic binary.

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