A Poem for An Artist
Talking about a painting, we say--
discipline decides taking on the bright square canvas
Look at it in the silence --
Talking about painting,
looking, following footsteps in blank space,
more necromancy than religion in the bright square.
Rows of colored marks, but does color equal commitment?
Talking about a painting. Taking a chance,
traveling and reading long hours
and always looking beyond.
Looking inside, painting a first thought,
color mapping direction as summer effects abstract patterns.
Summer, hot sweat, needing more than the trees.
Summer, the mountain roads dictates memories shaping time.
Remember our histories, and paintings still with us.
A class that stated with learning languages,
ways of thinking.
Starts with, and never stays with only blue.
Life of bends and creases. Chances.
Talking about painting, every color a road,
a direction filling the sky.
Electric blue of the city night,
walk silently away from winking lights.
Not the stars, but the evening sky
witnessing the changing weather
while I walk empty streets
past lonely passers-by carrying unreflected thoughts,
blue, blue across solemn blocks,
blue, blue in the middle of the week,
the city moving on while machines go up, up, up,
invade the sky, staring down on the white lines,
the blue night finding our way.
My birthday day,
sitting beside a blue vase crowned with curving
yellow and red gladiolas pointing upward,
trying to review backward loves,
the words a blue book of answers,
records of decades, collections of fading photographs,
childhood, the melody of language breathing in your ear,
silence looking for a way in.
Resonant echoes passing though
reach out and across, doubting what is lost,
the shadow of a step
echoing silences lined up,
gathering memories willing to be overheard.