soft grumbles

This one's all about rhythm! 'Nuff said.

A canvas and a storm

I stare idly at my canvas
too white even for a cloud

charcoal clouds fill the sky

and it's chilly outside

I begin to see nature for a theme
remember a place in my dream

I hear the gentle rustle of leaves

the patter of rain on the roof

With my steady hand I sketch
luscious trees on a verdant hill

the wind is getting stronger

I hear a faint whistle from my window sill

I dip my brush and begin to paint
thinly at first to fill in the space
then wildly as my vision takes shape

whistle becomes a howl

gust of winds coming from north to south

east to west, below and above

Swoosh swoosh goes my brush
I slam on wads of thick paints
violets, yellows, reds and greens
violent strokes of impasto like Gogh

outside, plant pots drop

so do billboards, trees and electric posts

woosh woosh there goes the neighbor's roof

blag blag blag goes my gutter up above

My landscape is almost done
with lavander trees, orange skies and lemon sun
trees stand proud and thick with leaves
while I hear the drip drip drip from my kitchen roof
I see strewn branches of trees all over my yard
debris from all around as in a war.

# posted by rolly @ 8:37 AM

This poem is for our lesson called The All Accepting Eye. To quote our moderator and teacher, Gwen:

Often something that is most memorable is not necessarily one of exceptional beauty, but one with a bit of ‘character’-- perhaps a spectacularly colored sunset that’s enhanced even more by the streak of gray cloud off to the side, or perhaps a flaw or other type of substance in a rock – for example the ‘flame’ in an opal. Might something unique or interesting be found in the scrapings from a dinner plate, or in a cigarette butt lying in the gutter

forty-nine years have taken its toll.
Seems like I have learned
nothing throughout the years.
My wife has to call a master
for the simplest carpentry work,
shorted electric wires or plumbing leaks.

I know I am good at something…

My rusty car is best described
as something that runs on four wheels
and nothing more. My house
small as a tin can filled with sardines
bereft of a garden where I can rest
read a book or play my guitar.

And yet, I know I have something…

My blood sweetened thick
having indulged on sugar and fat,
stones on my kidney had to be shocked
three times have I gone for treatment
and I still want my food to be salty.
Body plump, shoulders droop
belly’s big and my knees are weak.

I know I’m not much but there's gotta be something…

I should not wallow in sadness
and give in to the doldrums in my heart
for I have been blessed with other things:
a contagious smile, nimble fingers
with a guitar and my brush. All these
sufficient to feed my children
and give them a hearty laugh.