Rembrandt remastered

the established are in for it.
frames gone, borders sliced,
the mass is spilling over.
the vivid are dying to escape,
digitally shot and hung.
the stark strokes clean
as on leaving the old master.
happy couples find themselves
together, facing the light
or left in shade. watching
children gleeful, agape, annoyed
how did we find ourselves here
willing to smooth old scores,
pieces, papers, exotic folds,
starched collars, dark eyes
gazing out into a new world
of philosophers and cloth-makers
sailors, travelers, poets,
the old saviours and legends
who steal cursory glances. upwards
outwards, onwards. settlers return
their collective gaze, fired
remastered. a touch, a leap,
a glare, all guns blazing, almost
as aware of the darkness as we are.

HOOP-LA

Shun materiality. Object-
less thus, the two, int-
ertwined like prose and
poetry, reclined to recon-
stuct Rodin’s Kiss whi-
lst Billie Holiday sang
her heart out the window
under a November 1973 mo-
on. He wore a leather jac-
ket, the latest levi flares
and a pair of leather
high-heeled boots as he kick-
started an arc of circles
near the top of a large
canvass. Some fell over th-
e edge but one remain-
ed whole

Capitals

Eight letters.  The harbour is flanked by Scottish hills fired with independence.
Three Across.  New York scrapers barely scratch the low sky.  Four Down.  English seaside resort attracts film and media types looking to impress Hollywood critic.  Something, something, t.  The weather is everywhere and the winds carry ice, pollen, penguins and orcas.
Too far, too fast, and too soon.  On old shorelines people paddle in the footsteps of pioneers, browsing. Anagram.  From all over.
Coffee shop scrollers read all about trade agreements and recoil. They’re already knee deep in beans, grains, brain foods and thirteen dollar helpings of porridge oats.  Maybe a consolatory coffee-to-go for the wanderer parked outside wrapped up in strange looks.