Claude Monet

May 17, 2009 at 3:51 am (Poetry) (, , , )

Claude Monet2

Three boats were dragged onto an ecru shore,
sitting side by side,
half lit in sunset, half black in shadow,
with a streak of yellow along each keel.

Spring had come to Giverny,
The gardens were extravagantly simple:
the lilies alive in shades of purple pastels , the trees in lustrous evening oils.

( Camille in heaven cried
Long before Monet died
Knowing his sight,his gift of light,
would fade away
Before the last breath,before his last day.)

Strokes of radiance with unbounded control
made of colors innocent but bold.
Intimate lessons learned through life’s infinite array easily captured in the paintings
of Claude Monet.

Before the painting dried,
the boats were gone;mere marks on the horizon,
and empty water slapped the harbor
with shadows that through myopic eyes
became perfection in his art.

© 2009 C. Harter Amos


Permalink 1 Comment

A Smile and a Drawl

February 7, 2008 at 8:21 am (Poetry, RefleXions) (, , , , , )

Rainbow Row

 Charleston, South Carolina has a heartbeat all its own,
     Steady and slow,
The sound is St. Michael’s bell that has rung like clockwork
     For three-hundred years,
     Like an uncracked Liberty Bell
          Through two wars, slavery and civil rights,
And always it sings, “sweet freedom” as it tolls the hour
Over cobblestone streets and tourists taking carriage rides.

Couples still do their promenade on the Battery,
First down from their homes and back
     on Sundays after mandatory church,
With sea spray splashing on white fancy frocks
     and white planters’ suits,
The sound of Palmetto branches rattling
     In the sultry breeze,
          barely audible between the roaring roll of waves.

Rainbow Row, its softly rainbow colored houses
     Turned sideways to the road
     Each facing a garden with intricately designed wrought iron gates,
     And walls of tabby, oyster shells
          peeking out from accidental artistically placed patches.

It’s a matter of pride that only a few blocks away
Porgy met Bess and sang “Summertime” from a porch
     less well kept but sideways to the main road.
          It’s Charleston, after all.
And there’s always ambiance, a smile and a drawl.

© 2008 C. Harter Amos

Permalink 3 Comments

Sunday Night at the Orchid Room (Nov. 18, 2007)

November 22, 2007 at 10:12 am (Poetry) (, , , )



Ah, the Orchid Room…

I come here to listen


 to youth and vigor spilling out

      from inner voices that speak of vinegar and honey,

      of sulfuric acid and mercury.

Sweet Voodoo Child tests the waters 

      giving glimpses of the power of her words

  yet to come.

She is what gives us hope for the future,  

as delicate as the dew-shimmering webbing

     of a dragonfly’s wings,

as strong as the chainmail of the black knight,

a soul with a Kevlar vest made to fit,

  The inner visual acuity of a Lennon not dead,

          a Leary not burned out on LSD.


I salivate at the mere thought of new words,

    of wisdom so ancient

 it free falls from his soul

…Older Than Aztecs…

Look into his eyes, it’s there to see.

Listen to his voice, it’s easy to hear,

A prophet, he’d scoff at what I say,

 but it’s as real as this dream we live.

Only a man who’s seen beyond time

Could play the music so well

And wear that gray fedora with such grace and style.


I come here to listen to

Sweet Child of Mine,

who brings out the mother in me

        and my she-claws spring to defend.

    But she’s quite grown up, speaking of love,

her voice grown strong

   the way Women’s voices do

       when they leave prince charming’s behind

sitting in a mud puddle of pig shit, his mouth hanging open

as she saunters away.


Make no mistake,

None of these people need my

clipped and broken talons in their lives.

They don’t often know it’s me there at the corner table.

I simply listen to the timbre of their souls

carried on the blue smoke of the Orchid Room

and love them for the fact

they don’t simply live, they feel in ways I recognize,

in ways I respect,

     they stand at this mike to sing their songs for us all.


Ah, the Orchid Room…

I order my drink here:

A Brass Monkey

  That’s ½ oz rum, ½ oz vodka, 4 oz orange juice in a high ball,

But the bartender knows me here, knows my drink.

He fixes it a bit stronger and longer and forgoes the optional Galliano

on nights when I come in

nodding my head in his direction.


Pardon my bare feet;

This is the place I kick off my shoes

And let my hair fall down.

I sing my song at the mike

   for the others who come here to listen.

Pardon my low cut crimson dress;

This is the place I show myself for who I am, it’s true.

There are no lies here for me.

    It’s far too easy for the others

           to feel insincerity in my words if they aren’t stripped bare.



© 2007 C. Harter Amos

Permalink 4 Comments

It Can’t Be True

October 24, 2007 at 6:12 pm (Poetry) (, , )


I lay my head in hand
and went blank with tears that slid slowly down to burgundy sheets.

Somewhere near, in my memories,
The fog lay its chords down like fingers
On the neck of a good guitar.
Feel it cool and smooth in my hand
Worn in familiar ways like a friend,
The lone survivor of the war.

So much of my life is nothing more than a simplistic soundtrack
stretching backward in lost faded pictures
and home movies that ended up in someone else’s trash.
I know…You keep your memories in your heart
and hope you memorized the lines well enough to recite them
with truth and conviction, no additions or subtractions
without outside addictions or distractions.

Where will I go when I raise my head?
There, in someone else’s town,
I’ll learn to forget
And echo children’s smiles until the morning comes
Without fog and the music is mine again.
I’ll sing your song, remember your smile
Under the full moon of a new year come to stay.

© 2007 C. Harter Amos

Permalink 1 Comment

Writer’s Block

October 21, 2007 at 5:30 am (Poetry) (, , )



How easily my words came

Bean-sprouting from my brain


They river-flow with smooth agility over rocks,

Passing fish in the rapids as they go

Pressing against the spider webs of mental blocks

Or unmoving, stand with word-weapons drawn,

With foolish demonstrations

Of angst or love

Needing to say what I feel

Like a sensation-word junky,

A would be fantasy fool,

My sanity hiding in a corner and near-never intact.



Permalink 1 Comment