The Barbaric Yawp

Something there is that spites and sniggers at him 

For his faux reel comes out in forms of 

Disintegrated blithesome colours that make no deals. 

Like a monk cursing a lily-white crook 

Like a halo, he paints a circle of light

Like a sash lift on a window 

He sways again, marks another arch 

This time it’s a face 

It’s almost amber yet so dwarf 

He mushrooms the colours on his palette 

With help of the dwindling water, 

blue is what he adds in 

He repeats, 

“With zest and avidity, 

With gouache I paint” 

A full body with togs only 

So cerulean 

He’s not looking for a clad bonnie 

He paints his own Julius winsome 

The broken vengeance in his kind flair

For the slain dog of his story 

With zest and panache 

He paints the most ornate, violet 

Poncho 

Wincing and fuzzy, 

He takes one step back 

He finds 

’tis the portrait he never learned to paint 

It’s not a heaved painting of Caravaggio

That the curator will place 

Somewhere in the vaulted hall 

Now it’s his zestful self on a canvas 

That’s never been so winsome 

That’s what you could take home 

From this 

With zest and nothing else, 

You could be your own panache 

-MYIESHA