Summer 2010

Table of Contents - Vol. VI, No. 2


Poetry    Fiction    Reviews   

Bob Bradshaw


Dear Brother

Theo, I put myself under more pressure
to paint. But the more I do
the more expenses I incur.
And the less I can afford to paint.

I inch along, resolved to see
my paintings through.
Work is my only relief

but I overdo it.
I'm like a steamboat with a cracked boiler.

I'm unable to put distance
between me and poverty.
I ply my trade, but I put you, brother,
further into debt each day.

I am weary and carry a fever
into the evenings.
Where is a woman,
a child to carry me
through these hours?

Sometimes it takes an egg's white
to restore a study's color.
If only there were a varnish
to lift me from my darker moods.

But nothing lifts my spirits like letters
from you, dear brother.

If only you were here, to share
the shade of these olive trees.


Monet's Water Lilies

He no longer paints girls with torches
of russet hair, their skin pale
like white washed houses.

Instead his brush
strokes a lily's entourage
of water and light
as tenderly as any lover's hands.

Loss of vision has become an ally,
like a photographer who softens
the topography of one's face.

Floating purple flames,
the water lilies are lit
in a way we had never noticed.

Were they always here,
like a woman whose beauty
we only recently noticed?


© Bob Bradshaw



Poetry    Fiction    Reviews   

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