Le Boulevard de Monmartre

                                                       by Pissarro

Paris moulders

   in a stagnant lock,

       groans of Prussian gunfire

    within earshot

 the bourgeoisie

       in flood dredge

              the street beds

          of red-faced boulevards

landaus cant over cobbles

          crack of whip slash 

                 blinkered defiance

         in hames and traces

a two-way panic of coaches

         white sweat,

                 headstrong squalls

       of bridled dreadnoughts

 four-in-hand,

          six-in-hand,

                  coachmen’s hands

           strangled by their reins,

                                postillions

                                           in arch livery

                 conjure devils:

       ‘on y passe’,   ‘on y passe’,

barouches, post-chaises:

             slow bullets 

                    pitch, toss

           quick bones,

Messieurs, Mesdames, les enfants

          unharnassed

              from their great houses   

         run free from war,

maids, shopkeepers, fonctionnaires

         volte-face in pavement bars,

                   artisans, clerks

     pester under shade trees.

Boudoirs swoon in the reek of sulphur,

         the Establishment stands to:

               ‘Les Prussiens y viennent !’

        German Occupation Part One

Light Red over Black

                           by

                      Mark Rothko

Rheum conspiring from a lower echelon,                                                                                                                       

                                                                 parvenu

cabal of bright shades

                                      a whispering of vicious browns.

Soiled stir of insurrection puddling

                                                 the apathetic masses

passionate in their compliance,

                                                          with a latency

for violence and a fundament of fire.

                                                                 Cornered

 in white space

                  and moated, pit black sits tight

                                           a window into the night

the stamp of establishment ruling

                                          with a velverteen tongue,

its parameters worked

                            onto a florid daub.

                                Subjugation

between dark                                             and darker.

                      SALOME

                           by Caravaggio

         Pierrot and Harlequin 

                 by Cezanne 

                           four fools in a stanza, I hear

                          Do you hear them too ?

I am a leery Fool, my

festered feet touch stone

but still I can wriggle a toe.