Wayne Lanter

Main Content


Pablo in Paris

It is a pleasant enough portrait
two people, lovers perhaps,
Pablo and Olga in Paris,
smiling in their disjointed way,
painted on different days of mind,
when she is here, he is there,
or both here and there,
but only in parts together.

Paris has always been that way.
That is how lovers meet,
come together, an arm or hand
at a time, on the quai, sitting,
one dreaming of the river, the other
drifting with the clouds
both smiling for the moment
content to be there
in a disjointed liaison,
a goat fashioned of clay and old iron,
whatever else the twentieth century
might provide and discard,
the perspective turned ever so
slightly to expose dimensions
of different weeks or months.



Success and happiness are written in white ink on white paper.
Human problems and suffering are scrawled in blood and black ink.


If you put your hand in water and pull it out,
it will not leave a hole.
But your hand will be wet,
and that is the source for a thousand years of wonder.


It is a short step from
believing in
what is not there
to not believing in
what is there.

in memoriam

Each narrative, be it art, science, or gossip, provides a fragment for the awakening, enhancement, and extension of the consciousness that embraces it.