Self Portrait

I used be be an artist.

Personally, I think the above statement is kind of like saying, "I used to be Irish" or "I've given up breathing."

Truth is, I became a poet from the back door, a frustrated and blocked painter wasting time online instead of painting, Keeping posts brief required a bit of word wrestling, I joined a couple of writing forums, and I was hooked.

At any rate, while I broke my dry spell with canvas, I still write poems. Here is one that combines both.


A stroke of ocher
and I smell the earth, loamy and cool.

A daub of blue,
and I have eyes to look up at his brush.

I cannot free myself from this frame,
I am glued to this canvas,
wearing his face,
hooked and wired to his wall.

He brushes past me
and I hate him.

Once the cool fresh paint
felt wonderful, creative and new.

As the pink and red slash of my mouth
huffs in indignation, he ignores me,
the pliable flesh he created
hardening into insoluble form,
never to change again.

I used to envy him,
strutting to and fro beyond my frame.

He painted me a broken form
only to emphasize his unique wholeness.

Now when his creased and worn face
searches mine, like a father seeking truth
in the eyes of his son, I know that I have won,
for I am the only one with a chance at immortality.

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