The words flock together
and stretch on the frame
Their meaning runs over,
still wet from the pain
The canvas is porous,
the easel maligned
The curtains blow outward,
faces calling in mime
The streets all a-chatter,
it was Paris in spring
And striving to look busy,
the most important of things
Looking back at my window,
above the tannery so high
A shadow stares back
—and I flee in disguise
(Villanova Pennsylvania: June, 2016)
Forever On Hold
A literary sociopath…
Hemingway wrote
Both gifted and tortured,
his words they provoke
A verbal combatant,
new victories untold
His last proving fatal
—all memory on hold
(Villanova Pennsylvania: June, 2016)
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Author:
Kurt Philip Behm (
Offline) - Published: April 6th, 2019 10:19
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 16
- Users favorite of this poem: Laura🌻
Offline)
Comments3
Kurt,
• “Prisoner Of Disguise”
A magnificent read!
The words in your poem...
‘frame’, ‘canvas’, ‘easel ‘, ‘Paris’(a very special place with a very special meaning for me)...
made me think of a painter who paints beautiful pictures!
You are like that painter who has the gift of being able to create beautiful art! The painter creates with a brush and paint. You create with your poet’s pen! You both have the ability to put on ‘canvas’ ‘pictures’ that bring so much joy to people! A gift not possessed by many!
~Laura~
Thanks Laura. I lived in Versailles for two summers when I was
road-racing motorcycles in Europe.
I used to spend my days off wandering around Monmartre, talking
to street artists, writers, and Mimes (the Mimes never talked back,
but I did get a few smiles from a pretty female once).
I was there the year the Palace was robbed. I still plead my innocence.
🙂
Ah yes...Montmartre!!!
I had an apartment for a while on Rue Scribe and then stayed with an aunt on Rue Jean Brunet...Meudon for two years!
You plead innocent because they haven’t caught you yet! My lips are sealed! 😉
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