I lose myself in 'View at Arles with Irises'
and wonder how close I am to seeing Vincent
standing in that field
fighting the wind
frustrated at never quite seeing the pure expression
in his head
realized on canvas
I would tell him I see it
I know it as he does
he looks pensively at the beauty he has created
slowly raises his head
and unseen in the portraits
there comes a smile
he sets the brush aside
lights his pipe
and begins to tell the story
of the smoking skull

In the morning red hibiscus flowers
yesterday's petals have fallen to the ground
a hummingbird briefly hovers
in flashes, green iridescent feathered
soon the silver sun comes from behind clouds
reflections, in spectrum colors
of painted sky, brush strokes
in watercolors of dawn
the heart, a lotus flower
center of the soul
that opens.

In shallow pools of reflected thought
a child's face
sad and transparent
floats above a wheatfield
thick in bright yellow
amidst a flock of still crow

a shadow dressed in tattered pants
and a paint-stained shirt
brings a smile of recognition
to this lost child
then fades with a sudden gust of wind
the crow take flight
the wheat bend and sway into consciousness
our hearts are numb with the beauty of his pain

looking back at me
from a 16th century painting

Count Alborghetti of Bergamo And His Son

it was your face
your hair
your eyes
your hands

i never had a photograph
of you before

i searched
until i found
the artist and the subject

holy ****
you really shouldn't
sneak up on me that way

i remember
being married to you
a thousand years before
and a couple of hundred
years after

but this image
is a shock to me

The wind shuffles the long grass
And the broad green reeds
Shifting and rattling
By the rippling black water
Chuckling water fowl splash
Swans and cygnets hurry past
And the weather is on the turn
It's time to be heading home

The last of the daylight creatures
And the very first of those of the night
Are sharing this half-way hour
The sky restlessly moves and changes
And bruised clouds rush over head
Like the rubbed eye-lids of a child
A weary teary child
Going home and ready for bed

The slack and glossy water
Laps at the stone beneath bridges
Echoing with the ghosts of barges
And spits of rain flick the air
Studs of cold hitting the face
Turning a collar to the cheek
And urging aching feet
Home-fire yearning me home

                               By Phil Roberts