Colourful, Zealous Dancers on the Brink of Slant-Rhyming Time

They carried their easels into
the windy fields where they dined together.
Their skin itched from desire.

The creator throve in free range fields
where blue and green Picassos posed nude
brushing up crops yielding
faces unknown to them.
Let those art muses be healed
in ethical revolt with reminiscences,

and theirs are satisfactions stemming

from colour palettes.
Does the reader get my gist?
Crops were killed in communion
with sun’s warm kiss
anywhere these nymphs kneeled.
Afterward they were dismissed

as post-modern deals,
crushed and engaging from
real heart-work with zeal.
The reclusive woman reminisced
what she revealed

and art had no more reason to be concealed
with its secret symbols
personified in colourful, zealous dancers
on the brink of slant-rhyming
time.

Reviews

[Mary C]

beautiful write--a most splendid piece for sure !

[Susan Beth Horvath]

This is a deep and heartfelt write with tons of emotion..

[Tai Ryens]

From this I derive both a sense of control, and a sense of vulnerability, all battling in the mind of your speaker as they paint their thoughts upon the easel. The painter believes they can control his portrait because they is the one painting it . . . yet they is sculpting from the weather, and the weather's caprice renders their control worthless, for what was so when they began painting and could be so much different when their glance is lifted to see what had just become of the subject. Well done, really good food for thought.

[Saddam]

A fantastic write dear....................

[Wandering Minstrel]

this is such a good write ...

[John Anderson]

This was pretty amazing............

[Rene Velez]

A lot of nice lines here, beautifully worded and visually arresting...

[Matching Socks]

Lovely poem Anne. :)
You painted some stunning images.
Is it about ... you know what? I hate to ask because it's not obvious but I read a sensual undertone.

[Lyn Anderson]

The direct address to the reader is an effective tool in this poem. "Crops were killed in communion with sun's warm kiss" is a brilliant line.