Some Called Him Vincent

They tease only because they like what is true.


That is why you call them friends.

So when, in avocado skies,

With the fragrance of fuchsias, 


And perhaps even focaccia, 


And other salty, honest facts of life,

Droning like blue hummingbirds

And Manuka bees,

You seep through my weak and ailing

Ego, out onto the blotting paper of my conscious mind, 


I shall consider what it is they cherish, 


And come, perhaps, to feel the same.

And do not berate me when I do, 


I tease you only because I like what's true!


But here's a precursory thought or two,

Already noted on bibulous blue...

While I write a bottle’s worth

Of evasive attempts at articulation,

The following transpires:

That I have more in common with Van Gogh

Than most care to know, or notice.

That some called him Vincent.

That all I’ve ever written does not sum me up now,

And that the whereabouts of Brighton really doesn’t matter.

That you are the closest I will ever come

To understanding the stars,

And candidness is more attractive

And captivating

Than anyone cares to admit.

That lousy house parties

Are sometimes better than expected.

And you are braver than me,

And I thank you for it.

That speech is, more often than not,

Inadequate, and

Words seldom do justice

(However hard I battle with them.)

And that self-confessing,

Asymmetrical smiles

Are secretly my favorite kind.

That some songs have a hold on me,

That I could never explain much,

And photographs are not my favorite medium.

That poems are often incredibly hard to write,

And it’s all your fault.

(That you’re forgiven.)

And that even the spectrum

Of browns, golden and dusty,

Azul, virescent and viridescent,

Warm and hazy, igneous-red,

Flushed in sunset,

Curled in blazing amber;

The hue of gloriously tawny,

Shaggy apertures

Of Van Gogh’s Sunflowers

Are no match

For the honeyed morning's 

Beams of light

Dancing on your head.

'But how can words express the feel of sunlight in the morning...'