The young Sephardic came to paint in the park,
he was long bearded, long hair through the sides of the bald head,
his smile of endless landscape paths, he was there with his brush
by the Miami river beside the long trails of wooden meadows.
On the other side of the park was an insane asylum were no action
was even seen but the lull of days and a questioning silence,
no one came, no one left, no one was out ever in their cruel lawn,
now it is a very tall four star luxury hotel, leaving the crazed on the streets.
Dr.Heinrich Weiss wanted to be like Cezanne, reading
all the impressionistic painters journals that he would quote.
His long brown beard would flow in the breeze in laughter
flowing down the pathways with the trailing wildflowers
yellow and purples, he liked the open meadows, overseeing the
old sailboats on the dilapidated pier that old fisherman called their wives,
the children played, the seagulls cry and the old pelicans sat till sunset
Here that young man came that looked like a grandfather,
with his wild very long black beard, his old blemished painter’s diaries.
He had painted scenes from Buenos Aires where here recently lived,
for a few dollars to passer-by’s as his wife cried for him to get a real job.
He would quote from Gauguin, to Freud, reading, was life,
would past the evenings on the old futon, as his wife cooked his black
beans his rice and yucca, the snapper fish, delicious bread she baked.
There at his house surprisingly were many self-portraits, seemly
having a lifetime of endless paintings to fill a whole room.
When he started never finish in nature done through a photo.
On day coming to my studio with my vast open windows a sunset blazed,
“why don’t you paint this beautiful sunset, go now, do it?”
I replied, “it probably wouldn’t be a gorgeous sunset tomorrow.”
“Sure you can do it, will rise again, you will do a masterpiece.”
The sunset came everything was in a blaze of light for the fruit
trees dim shades everything in a lights sonorous rays…
