Ekphrastic Poetry. Is It Improper To Write About Your Own Art? #time #knowthetimes

Ekphrastic poetry is a vivid form of poetry that describes, interprets, or responds to works of visual art, such as paintings, sculptures, or photographs. I think I jumped outside the 4th wall on this one though. Call the poetry police, I guess...

Hand and Arrow

The girl with feet weary from walking long big city blocks

between scarce bus stops

steps into high rise’s lobby gallery.

A pristine aquamarine vinyl-skinned bench,

with upholstery that gleams like the seashore of

an exclusive beach resort,

invites her to take a seat.

She imagines that some people would remark

that at least nothing died, was killed for its hide,

to create its attractive cushion covering,

but she thinks the residual toxic outgassing odor

emanating from its petrochemical modernity

begs to differ.

A hunched-over grandfather clock looms to her left,

sweetly drenched in lemon blossom-scented furniture polish cologne.

She listens for his sage whispers between the tic and the tock,

hoping to discern the nature its witness in this moment,

whether it is to watch over or to oversee,

for time can be a friend who heals

or an opportunistic ghoul covertly cultivating

procrastination’s folly today

for tomorrow’s devouring.

She resolves not to wait around too long

to find out.

A small flock of well-pressed three-piece suits

strut by, their footsteps echo hollow

as a haunt of husks hiding human insecurities and

catalogues of pretentious topics of conversation.

They amble and ramble on, proud as peacocks,

clucking on about their crypto genius and fake financial facility.

They pause to hover nearby

striking pensive poses.

 in feigned interested, they gaze at the oil painting

mounted on the wall above where she is seated.

The artwork has earned for itself a frame of faux gold,

but the winged cherub subject appears oblivious of it

and betrays no offense or trace of slight.

He appears flawless and fresh from

a breakfast of ambrosia and angel’s milk,

cheeks flushed from exploring clouds,

chasing exhalations of eagles and seagulls,

and winding aerobatic antics between vapor trails.

His well-nourished fingers tug on the bowstring.

The arc of the bow strains as cherubic eye and arrow

in mirthful menace

take their aim at the bench’s occupant.

Grandfather clock leans,

ready to awaken a waging finger or an upward thumb

from an otherwise lethargic hour hand,

as he doubts the wee cherub can yet tell time.

Some among the flock of suits pull out their handkerchiefs

and wipe their dusty beaks

while the others, spent of capacity to pretend to care about

the artwork,

turn their uneasy heads vacantly, this way and that,

until from somewhere in the lobby

an elevator doorway pings,

and like an obedient clutch of hens

they file into their awaiting coop,

lest it ascend without them.

The clock tolls.

The hour is upon her.

She surveys the lobby,

wondering if anyone else

knows what time it is.

Sandra K. King copyright2026