Ice Dance

“Ice Skating Dancers” by Kristin Gaze

 

man and woman

at one with

a rhythm

smooth elegant

movements

so fluent

expressive of

passionate poetry

conjugal whispers

of skates

urging sensual

pas-de-deux

arcs that inscribe

the cloud-white

iced ballroom

each lift and

athletic embrace

bespeaks forms of

exquisite perfection

eliciting sighs

from this poor

enrapt witness

awed by the

grasp that such

flawlessness

beauty and grace

will forever be

out of his reach

this is love of a kind

artful stylized intense

though it lives

a mere moment

a powerful

beautiful moment

but one that

fast fades with the

flower of youth

like the already dying

red roses of accolade

strewn at the stilled

lovers’ feet in that

syntax of silence

that speaks

deep contentment

an echo to fill

an arena between

end of dance

and ovation

Blindness

Abstract Photo by Blind Artist Craig Royal

what is it the blind man
can see with his mind
might it be the perfection
we sighted can’t find

* * *

“We’re blind to our blindness. We have very little idea of how little we know. We’re not designed to know how little we know.” – Daniel Kahneman

Purblind

“The Ethica of Spinoza” by Shoshannah Brombacher

 

 

in this lurid Kardashian culture
where those famous for fame
and those famous for shame
entertain hosts of vacuous minds
it seems beyond doubt that
Spinoza was terribly wrong for
reality clearly cannot be perfection
though I suspect few left alive
understand or appreciate just
where the irony lies in those words

Intimations of Mortality

“Birth and Death” by Lidija Ivanek

(An homage to Wordsworth)

 

the newborn child

arrives in an exhale of breath

preexistent with memory

tactile and voicelessly vivid

awareness firsthand of a heaven

conformed to a perfect new soul

an emergent philosopher

touched by the intimate truths

harshly thrust among perils

of this imperfect world

oh the irony watching as time

and the nature of life

deconstructs the perfection

contaminates purity

forcing the babe to grow up

and grow through mortal suffering

dimmed of the knowledge

so bright at the time of nativity

feeling all the magic slip away

until reaching a mental maturity

learning if lucky all over again

what had once been so real

but can now be no more than

experience had by the intellect

Old Violins

“Abstract Violin in Oils” by Tammy Burnett

such subtle perfections
artisanal mastery
working the secrets
of varnish and wood
honeyed resonance
sweetening centuries
convex and concave
caressed from cured
maple and spruce
a refinement of forms
yielding nuances
new to the musical ear
bright and brilliant
of timbre and tone
and yet fragile and
too much afflicted by
indifferent march of
indelicate time

we are old
born of stock
long since
gone to the grave
we are better
and also the worse
for our age
we have outlived
the best of our
beautiful songs
blessed and cursed
all at once by
the same flawless
fingers of genius
uniquely aware of
how lovely a sound
could be made
by a life

“The older the violin, the sweeter the music.”
– Augustus McCrae in Lonesome Dove

(A modest tribute to the master Italian luthiers: Stradivari, Guarneri, Amati, and Bergonzi)

Attenuation

“Gentle Strength”
Painting by William Killen
From fineartamerica.com

did we ever live gently here upon this good earth
did we ever live gently here upon this good
did we ever live gently here upon this
did we ever live gently here upon
did we ever live gently here
did we ever live gently
did we ever live
did we ever
did we

we did not
for the rare men
who did
those saints
among sinners
would never
personify us

we were born
and remain a
most ungentle
species with
our hearts
disinclined
to perfection

Perfection

“Italian Perfection”
Painting by Dreama Tolle Perry
From dailypainters.com

there is no perfect poem
no perfect man
with perfect pen
to draw together perfect words

and yet I keep on writing
through my faults
with perfect hope
the folly of a perfect fool

Corollary

“Imperfect Beauty”
Photo by Tactile Photo
At tactilephoto.com

 

 

perfection lives nowhere
except in nightmares
of damaged self-esteem

from this proposition
precisely follows
the reason why

beauty lives everywhere
notably in dreams
of possibilities