Wednesday, November 9, 2011

When she left Picasso,

the days were still warm, all the world was young
it was summer
or what was left of it.

When she left Picasso
there was nothing to be done to make the going easy
she was met at the end of the lane
by a man with a lamp
who showed her the way out
and which road to go
away from Picasso.

When she left Picasso
she couldn't eat or sleep
there was too little time
there was too far to go
and the future a steep/grade up/into the unknown.

When she left Picasso
it was a summer night
with the windows of the town fully open with light
and the terrible red eye of Antares staring down
from the bright net of stars called Scorpio.

and, what was there to be done with
the things he'd given her
the stories, the visions,
the children of nuclear fission
it was a hell of a way to go...

...when she left Picasso,
he wondered why
wanted to know the ways a bird can fly
so many had flown too close to the sun
but she has left me while our love was still young
and that rattled the soul of old Picasso.

When she left Picasso
the waves smashed on the shore
in the south of France
the rip tide was great
and pulled at full force
full of yearning for Picasso.

When she left,
and they kissed their last kiss
white hot as the first
he slammed his fist on the desk
spilling the green tea,
'women don't leave a man like me,
don't you know who I am, I'm Picasso'.

When she left Picasso
god he was mad
all the colors drained out of the room
and left were the etchings of structures of things
like bones and stones and tombs,
and the sucking black hole
at the end of the o, in Picasso.

When she left Picasso
she wasn't afraid
she had the right of the spheres on her side,
and the winds blew behind her and tousled her hair
and the gods in her did confide,
'we'd hoped you'd stay for a while,
but if you must then go,
you've earned your wings
with this Picasso'.

When she left
started her car
set the GPS for somewhere,
all the way down that long-haul road
were scattered bones of those that had gone before
lovers friends and foe of Picasso.

When she left Picasso
the Santa Anas were blowing
from California to Barcelona
the tin roofs of bordellos were coming down,
a chime from a church bell
the doppler'd harmonica
the sound of his voice,
his voice that echoed through her lost mining towns,
on the winds of desire that blew through the portals
of the P and O, of Picasso.

When she left Picasso
goodbye was still a hello
a fond waiting 'til next text or talk on the phone
every door left open
and buttons undone
like a nuclear wasteland
with all things in place
but the humans were totally gone.
Like this she said yes, to life and to love
and sent a wish out into the unknown
a kiss to all things
both fierce and beautiful
like this, she said no, to Picasso.


  1. Lovely, haunting, beautiful - Hopeful :-) I like this girl!

  2. There are many, but I think this line is my favorite: "....and left were the etchings of structures of things like bones and stones and tombs, and the sucking black hole at the end of the o, in Picasso." Endings do leave black holes, and it just so happens there is an "o" there at the end. But you saw it. And wrote it, and you get the credit :) GREAT piece Cindy Lee.

  3. I was mesmerized while reading this, Cindy. Your descriptions of the universe internal and external added so much color. And I like how you used the letters of the word Picasso. Really like this!

  4. This is a very fine poem, and the moment it really captured me, ah'd me, was the same line that Cindy identifies: "...and the sucking black hole at the end of the o, in Picasso." So beautiful, such truth.

  5. "She had the right of the spheres on her side."

    These verses are so magnificent and strangely familiar that at first I thought you might be citing some great poet whose name I couldn't quite recall.

    That great poet is you, CLB.

  6. You guys have all made my week sweet with these enthusiastic responses to my new poem. It was a classic spewing forth of verbiage until the deed was done.
    Martha what you said reminded me of the times, probably as a writer you had these as well, a teacher would question whether what I'd written was plagiarized or not. First time was 6th grade, a poem called Does It Rain On Mars. Second time 8th grade, a story I'd written in 5th grade called Silent Paws (about a man's friending a big cat). And 10th grade, some scifi story I wrote...after awhile I expected it.

    The real story was this one: In 3rd grade, a month after my mother died, we were assigned to write a story or poem. I couldn't think well after she passed away. We were living at my grandmothers house in Laguna Beach with Grandma Berryhill and crazy Auntie Flo. At any rate, I didn't write one and so I chose to turn in a poem that I found at the very very back of our english text book. I thought, this is so faaaar back in the book the teacher will never have read this one. I copied it and turned it in. Then the teacher called me up to read my poem, it was called "Timothy Tigs and Timothy Togs" the end she applauded and then asked if I'd really written it. I told her I had. Then she told me to get my book and turn to page, whatever. I was busted and then she proceeded to explain what plagiarism was. I wrote my own story the next day.

  7. poor abandoned..perhaps he's out of paint this time, for sure!