Klimt’s ladies peruse the décor with superior expressions.

No doubt they disapprove of modern

colour schemes, overdosed with pastel bland

in poor imitation of Bauhaus efficiency.


A generation below, Oscar leans in some New York bar

trying to look forties cool.

His name might not be Oscar.

I got him for eight notes in a second-hand shop.


Maybe he’s the lost child of the redhead.

© Guaj 2022
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His name might not be Oscar. Don’t ask me why!


Isn’t it fascinating the way works of art can speak to our senses even by-passing the rational mind on occasions?
Can liberate a story or endless possibilities from the creative mind.
An interesting poem that engages the reader.

Alison x


Short and sweet. Joyful to read. Such vivid images. Blissful.

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