|
Limited
Editions
Sun behind you
so it frames your subject -
hot metal, kerosene,
flesh and bones and iron will.
This is the school
that drew the artists...
each perfecting their art, their skill
in the skies over Biggin Hill.
Hold still,
while I trace in pencil and gouache,
your face, half blown away.
How artless must it be
to live to fight another day.
Basque
Country
Scarlet and black, it hangs behind the door,
lace and bones and suspenders.
Doris, who is eighty-four,
tries it on,
remembers
Monochrome Mates
I am Ku Klux, deep space icy,
a puritan snowdrop.
You are a granulated zebra,
an Amish nun, Belisha Goth.
I am shadow cricket, you, taxi tennis
in Stormtrooper duds.
You are virgin crotchets in spades;
I, a magpie in morning suit, a penguin hearse.
You are forever, my snowy Bagheera,
my frosted palomino.
Copyrights @ Isabel White |
|