Luminous Cows

The Cow With Parasol by Marc Chagall

You could see cows then in Montmartre
when lights called the world to Paris.
Young hearts came, consumed with their art,
their sight defined Her as heiress.

When lights called the world to Paris,
they found their ideas in cafés;
their sight defined Her as heiress
through canvas, brush, paints and wordplay.

They found their ideas in cafés
in Her energy and freedom.
Through canvas, brush, paints and wordplay
inspiring artistic outcome.

In Her energy and freedom
musicians and artists said they
created inventive outcome
whether written, sculpted or played.

Musicians and artists said they
must make the unseen become known,
whether written, sculpted or played
by weaving their souls in art’s bones.

Must make the unseen become known,
must live and die imbued by art.
By weaving their souls in art’s bones,
they transformed the cows of Montmartre.

Picasso to Chagall, Apollinaire to Hemingway they put the cow and the bull in their art; and Gertrude Stein made “cow” a whole new symbol!

© Gay Reiser Cannon * 1/2012 * All Rights Reserved



A Winter’s Cottage – Thomas Kincaid

Earth’s raked its brown and jagged leaves
empty branches barbed and arms yearning

snow begins to fall, ermines turning white
the lake freezes to a moon silver mirror

the wren returns to feathery down
in the eaves of the twilight house

night covers the lilac landscape
windows serve as yellow beacons

a husband returns to his ocher train station
then slogs home to the warmth of her kitchen

and the heated fragrance of love

© Gay Reiser Cannon * 11/11/11 * All Rights Reserved

Outside My Window

Altered picture. Base picture found on

Autumn gilds the pattern of her skirt
shirrs her bodice made of sky and clouds
her new-for-winter hat, a snowy white egret

her amber eyes a dream of other falls
when trance beguiled; when love felt gold,
more so than silk brocade, heavier than its threads

trimmed in lace that formed through rocks
jewels in the stream sparkled like a diadem
her rivers carried promises shared with stars

wind heard in distant bells
gongs deep as wells or tinkles of a sleigh in snow
perhaps a whisper murmured low, “not long to go”

Autumn fades at last from gold to gray
remembered, though, those perfect days

© Gay Reiser Cannon * All Rights Reserved