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American Gothic Look behind the scowl, beneath the plain clothes. Look at pride, standing tall with callused hands holding honest labor like a scepter. The no-nonsense facade of survivors, patiently enduring. ~~Judi Van Gorder "American Gothic" painting by Grant Wood 1930

Poor Oliver, when he asked for more gruel, at a school whose default setting is: "cruel." Did a mere boy think this Board to be fools, to donate undeserving brats too much fuel? As our hero received the severest telling-off so far better for him he did not solicit broth. More victuals, daresay richer stuffs to scoff, scamps'll soon demand linctus if they cough. Dickens did not live in today's benificent days, describing for us Britain's then social malaise. He'd twist Ollie's luck with propitious coup de théâtre, he may have soup enough hereafter.

Explore the Craft of Writing Greek Verse Ecphrastic or ekphrastic Greek (speaking out) is a genre of verse that can be traced to ancient Greece and Plato's Republic, Book X. It is considered a rhetorical device using one art form to define another. In this forum it would be defined as a poem inspired by another piece of art. Originally the inspiration was confined to visual art such as a painting or sculpture but it has expanded to include auditory or sensory art forms such as a symphony or dramatization. The word painting should be a lucid self contained description of the inspiration and should be as vivid as the art it describes. It can go beyond the inspiration providing history or dramatizing, telling a story to expand the vision. "Painting is silent poetry, and poetry is painting with the gift of speech."Simonides(556 BC - 468 BC) The elements of Ecphrastic verse are: a genre of verse inspired by another piece of art. frame, meter, rhyme at the discretion of the poet. West Clare, August by Brendan Lyons inspired by Old Irish Farmer (sorry I couldn't read the artist's name) The wind, rippling across unruly fields, is chill, not warm, on this summer night, and it runs in a rush down the narrow road between tangled bushes of unripe berries. A tall shape appears, dark from the darkness, a bicycle of the sturdy kind, its dim light dancing, of a type much admired by bachelor farmers. A song, a sweet tenor, separates from the air, and the clear heart-breaking song of youth arises: it is the thrush-like throat of Dinny Joe, who was all of eighty-four when the sister died, his housekeeper, last year or the year before? I retreat without words into silent shadows for I would not for the world interrupt him as he cycles into darkness, legend and death. Another eckphrastic inspired by Knee Deep by Marieluise Hutchinson January by Tõnis Veenpere Minus eleven, drifts of snow aglow. Your house -- quiet, lit, and occupied. I'm under the maple remembering your laughter your gentle conversation, and I miss you. A windless chill. The smoke from your hearth hangs still in the purple sky. ***** More Pastry Chef by Judi Van Gorder I Remember When Elephant Tree Heaven's Chaos Civilization Firefly And one inspired by another poem. Just my reaction after reading The Love Song of J Alfred Prufrock by TS Elliot Advice to old Prufrock by Judi Van Gorder You prowl the streets at night haunting skid row dives. The catlike yellow fog clouds your mind and lulls your soul to sleep. The women may speak of another hero, it is no matter, jealousy diminishes. You have known them, yet still they distract. You not they decide your course. The clock ticks steadily but it hasn't stopped. Fear and doubt freeze the spirit just as hope opens the door and allows artistry to flow freely. Step away from the dusk and walk into the dawn. The mermaids sing for you if you just open your heart. Dare to take pen in hand and you may find some will listen.

The wind, rippling across unruly fields, is chill, not warm, on this summer night, and it runs in a rush down the narrow road between tangled bushes of unripe berries. A tall shape appears, dark from the darkness, a bicycle of the sturdy kind, its dim light dancing, of a type much admired by bachelor farmers. A song, a sweet tenor, separates from the air, and the clear heart-breaking song of youth arises: it is the thrush-like throat of Dinny Joe, who was all of eighty-four when the sister died, his housekeeper, last year or the year before? I retreat without words into silent shadows for I would not for the world interrupt him as he cycles into darkness, legend and death.