Andreas Gripp, CA

 

 

Free Verse The Frustrated Wife as Artist   You sat outside as it poured, brush in hand, mascara running, striving to paint an indoor scene from our battleground living room. Carmine, indigo, mustard yellow lines merely streaks on rain-soaked canvas, my face a smudge of black, clouds stirring greys in nature's ceiling while the sodden landscape drooped, heavy with water's weight, ignored by bristled strokes that found no happiness to capture.     Reading Winter Poems at Carr's Cafe   If you as well spend evenings with anachronistic bards, then it's true that you might spot me at this table made for two, with a candle, empty chair, and I'll spy a lovely woman in a line-up for a drink, beg your pardon for my fancy, my feigning she's bare at the waist, softly shuffling to where I'm seated, introducing herself as Kate, my flipping through Tennyson a sign I'm far less living than he.