Thursday, January 17, 2013


I am my own canvas
and palette of paint
I am the brush
that takes ages and waits
for the stroke or
a daub or the lines
come from wakening
until colors
I choose to be
will not forsake me
sensation is scumbled
across linen fields
what I know I paint
what is color is real
how simply the viewer
responds to complaint
when so much is
layered when so little
is faint
look again at my
portrait my landscape
this feint
frame it well
hang it high
pentimento can’t wait
what keeps us all bound
is layered and then
when it’s stripped
we discover
a common amen

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