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#NationalPoetryMonth
My Last Canvas
Tonight I'm tired to the bone, wasted from too little sleep
and the same amount of love.
It's difficult to keep life in perspective.
#NationalPoetryMonth
My Last Canvas
Tonight I'm tired to the bone, wasted from too little sleep
and the same amount of love.
It's difficult to keep life in perspective.
The looming unfamiliar, so easily dismissed during daylight hours,
hunches menacingly right over there, occasionally giving out
a short sharp bark of what must pass for laughter in its tribe.
hunches menacingly right over there, occasionally giving out
a short sharp bark of what must pass for laughter in its tribe.
Undaunted, I stare into its face,
searching those pitiless features for some clue
to its intent, its content, its torment.
There it waits, mostly silent, daring me to walk right up and own it.
searching those pitiless features for some clue
to its intent, its content, its torment.
There it waits, mostly silent, daring me to walk right up and own it.
I peer inside those hollow eyes and see a maelstrom of papers,
some stiffened with bureaucracy, some bright with painted promise,
others worn and wrinkled.
Photographs caught helpless in this maddened whirl fly past.
some stiffened with bureaucracy, some bright with painted promise,
others worn and wrinkled.
Photographs caught helpless in this maddened whirl fly past.
I recognize the smile of some old lover.
I catch the scent of sandalwood worn by my long-dead artist sister
and hear her voice defending all my dreams,
and wonder why these shades of life long past inhabit what awaits me.
I catch the scent of sandalwood worn by my long-dead artist sister
and hear her voice defending all my dreams,
and wonder why these shades of life long past inhabit what awaits me.
The creature blinks and all is gone, replaced by slate
so blank and hard it seems that no one's hand
could score it, scar it, trace a path across its gray unyielding surface.
I step abruptly back and know that there it is
- my future -
not yet written or designed.
so blank and hard it seems that no one's hand
could score it, scar it, trace a path across its gray unyielding surface.
I step abruptly back and know that there it is
- my future -
not yet written or designed.
Into the unfamiliar then I gaze again,
knowing I will have history but also freedom
to imprint a brave new me-ness on the morrow.
The dread evaporates, and what was menacing is now inviting.
knowing I will have history but also freedom
to imprint a brave new me-ness on the morrow.
The dread evaporates, and what was menacing is now inviting.
The cold and cruel slate becomes a fresh and ready canvas,
there for me to stroke whichever way,
with whatever color patterns I find pleasing.
Oh, it's not all a gift.
I'll have to grind my own pigment,
mix my own palette, choose my tools carefully.
there for me to stroke whichever way,
with whatever color patterns I find pleasing.
Oh, it's not all a gift.
I'll have to grind my own pigment,
mix my own palette, choose my tools carefully.
This is no rehearsal.
No longer can I claim apprenticeship.
This is master class, and my last canvas.
© 1998 RC deWinter
No longer can I claim apprenticeship.
This is master class, and my last canvas.
© 1998 RC deWinter
Hear me read the #poem "My Last Canvas"
#NationalPoetryMonth
#spokenword
soundcloud.com/venus-derhymer…
#NationalPoetryMonth
#spokenword
soundcloud.com/venus-derhymer…
Thanks to all; who read/shared/listened to the #poem "My Last Canvas" Hope Sunday's treating you gently.
