Found Art

Frederico Draw

Trova is the flower vase that people put in the window of their soul.

Fernando Pessoa



I’m searching for some back relief;

our hiking left us stinky.

Hot baths shore up our belief.

(Carlota, you’re still slinky!)


It’s my anticlimactic

fate for us two to grapple.

So why are you didactic?

(We ought to drink a Snapple.)


It seems you’re replete with spite,

full of bluster and heckling.

To quote you, “Insincere,” quite.

(You toughs aren’t too dazzling.)


Your challenge leaves me jumpy,

looking for a sharp retort.

Pulling blocks makes me grumpy

(Can’t you just cavort, old sport?)


Grandfather, you are Porto!

You paint without guile or lies,

Green and pink, Mister Dheo!

P-ffffffttt like the clouds and skies.


I posed as a raconteur;

The Camino was my theme.

In suffering, my bonheur.

(With Charlotte, I walked my dream.)


It’s not exactly sunny,

Death. Neither geometric.

I guess it can look funny.

(For poets, melancholic.)


Punks, three wannabe gangsters,

Willie, Billie, Millie’s pod,

man-killing, shyster tricksters,

entice me to make a quad.


It seems we have no meanie

here: Greenie, easy-going,

a kind and boinging Weanie,

his love so undemanding.


Paint from feelings,” your Chorus.

Street art is like a zipline

With thrills as a bonus,

and the rush of a deadline.


If I were to sing a motto,

where humbled pride and howls

sound played out and shallow,

Happy” would chase my scowls.


For sale: a pound of my heart.

Algorithms tease my head.

For free: I leaven my art–

poems rise, my daily bread.


Through Trova you are unbound

to escape eternal blah.

I hear the call: “Unleash the hound.

Kiss me! Feel my poem’s mwah!”


For years I was pondering

bodiless words on a blog,

while Red Dog was comforting

poor souls like a good sheep-dog.


Poets could use a dojo,

protected, like an aerie,

a place to regain mojo,

to practice being eerie.


Yellow, blue, orange, purple, pink.

Rife with strife and love of life,

Melia winks, and makes me think,

Am I happy? Or fearing life?


Stylin’ ,sportin’ a red tarboosh,

Eatin’, scarfin’ baba-ganoush!

Pretendin’, soundin’ plummy.

Whoosh! I feel like such a dummy.


Earth-bound am I, far from drones;

the soil is my sector.

Grip your ground, put down your phones.

This poet is not a  texter.


I need company to prove

I don’t scream alone and roar

in the void to find my groove.

Poetry is a group chore.


Pink and purple, for my graphics;

My black name on a gray matrix;

I steal plots without ethics;

my poems are like comics.


Urban art extracts pledges

from me to find the just phrase.

Frederico Draw wedges

Porto’s Trova in my heart’s maze.

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