i live in a box of paints
© Kennedy James. All rights reserved.
i live in a box of paints
nowhere near the mauves, magentas, or pinks
and certainly not cosied up to
the yellows — not even the ones
that pretend to flame into orange
i'm more inclined to linger
over here
by the blues
swimming between the tropical
cerulean smudges and the heavier
glops of navy
and most always stopping
just short of
black ...
at times
i furrow into the profundity
of red
something of an excess
i suspect
but only
when i feel a little wild
and reckless
or full of a passionate desire
to brush
bold and careless strokes
across a human canvas
leaving behind a small trail
of seminal inspiration
but little in the way
of art ...
when winter comes
and the world adopts
a cosmological white glacé
over twisted
half-hidden shapes
of brown and gray
i sometimes dream
of a pastiche of greens
from jaundiced lime to the darkest emerald
a spectrum
defining the sleeping bud
of springtime
that strange season
of beguiling tinctures
soothing the chill
of empty spaces
with a smear of hopefulness
never quite completely forgotten ...
i live in a box of paints
hidden from view
by the tortured stack
of half-finished
portraits of you
awaiting
a second inspiration
or some returning regard
for what was there
for a moment
before my eyes faltered
and the perfect
combination of colours
bled to mud
and the beauty
of bringing the inside of love
outside from the closed closet
of mere imagining
disappeared
completely ...
nowhere near the mauves, magentas, or pinks
and certainly not cosied up to
the yellows — not even the ones
that pretend to flame into orange
i'm more inclined to linger
over here
by the blues
swimming between the tropical
cerulean smudges and the heavier
glops of navy
and most always stopping
just short of
black ...
at times
i furrow into the profundity
of red
something of an excess
i suspect
but only
when i feel a little wild
and reckless
or full of a passionate desire
to brush
bold and careless strokes
across a human canvas
leaving behind a small trail
of seminal inspiration
but little in the way
of art ...
when winter comes
and the world adopts
a cosmological white glacé
over twisted
half-hidden shapes
of brown and gray
i sometimes dream
of a pastiche of greens
from jaundiced lime to the darkest emerald
a spectrum
defining the sleeping bud
of springtime
that strange season
of beguiling tinctures
soothing the chill
of empty spaces
with a smear of hopefulness
never quite completely forgotten ...
i live in a box of paints
hidden from view
by the tortured stack
of half-finished
portraits of you
awaiting
a second inspiration
or some returning regard
for what was there
for a moment
before my eyes faltered
and the perfect
combination of colours
bled to mud
and the beauty
of bringing the inside of love
outside from the closed closet
of mere imagining
disappeared
completely ...
© Kennedy James. All rights reserved.
Goodness what a truly brilliant piece!! I have spent an entire day rambling along with this one trying to piece together an intelligent comment that makes sense to anyone other than me ~grin~
ReplyDelete... Every single moment in life is uniquely different ... everything changes, yet somehow nothing does.
.... is it the colour of the dawn that inspires the sun ... or is it the sun that inspires the dawn ....
let the inspiration of returning regard breathe a new dawn into the mud faded imagining ... like the sun ... the soul knows its way ...
".... is it the colour of the dawn that inspires the sun ... or is it the sun that inspires the dawn ...."
DeleteSort of a Zen question ... the two are really one in the same ...
Namaste ...
Sometimes a fabulous poem is just that ... fabulous! Each reader walks away with a personal interpretation that quite possibly helps them with the struggles of life. xxx
ReplyDeleteI'm glad you like it ... ;o}
Delete"... portraits of you
ReplyDeleteawaiting
a second inspiration... "
At this point, you cover your entire canvas with titanium white and start over again. There will be some irregular roughness to the texture of the painting, but that will give it character. By doing it this way, when you are gone and famous, someone will x-ray your masterpiece and speculate on your original intent.
~Manfred
I suspect the x-ray will reveal that, beneath the titanium white, there is an empty canvas ... perhaps the perfect portrait of love ...
Delete... have I wandered into the closing lecture of Philosophy 101? So many comments here weighted with their very own entourage of musings.. enough to keep me meditating to the very depths of my cortex. Lovely poem.. I love colours in writing anyway, but this is a sensitive painting of words.. evocative..
DeleteI tend to stick to the yellows and pinks... I could be living in the same paintbox and you'd never know I was there! :)
ReplyDeleteOh, I'd know ... ;o}
Delete