I had two poems published in the current edition of The Write Launch. Here is the second:

Fine Art

After six generations in my wife’s family,
we were selling the house,
and I was assigned to clean the attic—
told not to get distracted.

By what, I thought?
Comic books from the ‘30s?
Old baseball cards?
But I stuck to it.

Towards the back
there was an ancient, ornate trunk—
so large I wondered
how it got there.

I twisted the old lock open
to find a collection of drawings and oils,
so wonderful they took
my breath away.

And when my wife
came up to join me
all hope of a clean attic flew off.
We spent hours admiring

the portraits and landscapes—
the brushwork so fine,
Cezanne would have ventured
a second look.

It was a mystery,
for not a single piece
was signed.
We primed the great

aunts and uncles
with gallons of tea
and honey cakes—
but no one offered a name.

We never did sell the house—
spent time framing and hanging the art
while searching for clues in every nook and cranny
of that fine old home where once genius had lived.