the juvenile painter

This poem is dedicated to the beautiful painter who inspired me to write this.





The moon - the beautiful, mystical moon -
playing nightly to empty seats!
the noise of the trees, the breakin of the moon into silver fish
bouncing off the leaves of asters



There is peace and rest in the contemplation
of these miracles
that nature paints on the canvas of the sky
and thou painting meticulously on the canvas of thy own.

Moments before sleep are when thy feels most alive, leaping across fragments of the day,
bringing each moment into the bed like a peevish school boy accompined with frolic and gay.


Giving such confident brush srokes each time,
thy eyes reflecting incredulity with every new refulgent glaze
while thy perverse hair falling soft and slack
about thy face.


what thy misses here is slow twilight,
the sound of the fimiliar trees,
the semblance of the silence night,
for thou has been a drunkard in the island of love.

i have given my pensive heart the stoical endurance it didnt deserved
perhaps i should've mended my juvenile feathers
before going out for the pursuit of a flower grown wild.

But oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
thy paintings flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.

therefore I send thou a cream-white rosebud
With a flush upon its petal tips;
For the love that is purest and sweetest
Has a kiss of desire on the lips.

The moon - the beautiful, mystical moon -
playing nightly to empty seats!