Sargent's Sandwich Poem by Suzanne Hayasaki

How would John Singer Sargent paint a sandwich?
Would the Skippy be as silky as Lady Agnew's skirt?
Would the jelly drip like jewels off a shoulder?
Would the background be a shadowy black?

What would Monet capture today?
What sunny scape would Van Gogh set off,
Straw-hatted and half mad to paint?
Where is the beauty that we miss
As we stare at our screens
Or listen to pundits hiss and whistle
Like tea kettles forever left boiling?

Weren't Da Vinci's times as troubled?
With despots marching mercenaries
Into neighboring territories
In an endless, deadly game, for them
An eternity of desperation for the rest?

And yet somehow, in all times,
No matter how precarious,
There are those precious few
Who can shut out the power plays
Of princes and presidents
And focus on what is real.

A hand painted ceramic pitcher filled with berries,
Precariously perched, throwing burnt umber shadows
On the now familiar shelf that becomes new
As the objects edge forward to meet the viewer.

A painting a day!
How that must force his eye and his mind
To work in search of surprises
Hidden in plain sight.

I will never be so prolific
But I remain vigilant
To find the calming order
Which underlies the ordinary
And reminds us that below the daily chaos
Hides the serenity of eternity.