Untitled

UNTITLED

I am the last to criticize a fellow

Traveler up this dangerous slope of art;

Last to call for censorship, to burn a book

But sometimes when I wend through the renderings

Of the modern art museum I feel as gypped

As the emperor in his new birthday suit.

           

I stand dumbfounded at a six-foot canvas

Totally awash in thick black tempera.

Except for three tan splotches at the bottom,

Which for all intent and purpose appears that

The artist set the painting down wet upon

A piece of butcher paper that left a stain.

The little information plate along side

Says the painting’s moniker is “Untitled”.

I think, Well, the artist did not know what the

Hell it was either, but then the Plate explains

The artist’s enchantment with the bull ring and

Black is the power of the bulls on the sand.

A modern poem:

BULL

BULL

BULL

BULL

BULL

BULL

sand.

Do you sense the power of the fighting bulls?

Do you not see them snorting as they saunter

Into the ring to face the matador’s sword?

Do you feel the hoof scratch at the arena

Sand as the bull sets its feet for final charge?

My poem is not untitled. I call it BULL!