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Posts Tagged ‘umbrella’

It won’t be as black

as my umbrella I forgot

the weather I carried around me.

My eye bags were  like cumulus cloud

hanging low, grey and heavy

moving slow hovering thoughts

you won’t know what I am trying

to get over underneath. I expect

 

rain showers drop down its pellets.

And the prevailing wind will keep

nagging my peace of thunderstorms

and lightning, intermittently

piercing montages of grief

into the continuity of my sleep.

 

I had lost track where the wind vane

points a direction towards depression.

I forgot how to regulate the flow

of the emotional flash flood I contain.

And here I am with my lonely forecasts.

The weather disturbance I blame

when the sun won’t smile up

on me, again.

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We walk along the beach to see

the happy couples like us staring at the ocean.

And see how the waves come and go

subduing our blues, buried under the sand.

Did we become a tourist of our own,

devoid of pleasure on being together?

We walk like solitary man and woman

glancing sideways, avoiding leisure

as if children were lost running both ways

chasing happiness out of sight. Dreaming

of lost balloons. Of lost kites. Of empty boats

bobbing, floating and drifting away.

We smile blankly and falsely wonder

about the beach umbrella blown in the wind

and the white surf racing past each other

to reach you. And me, while I am trying

to mute down my gaze towards a space

where shadows of people begins to fade

under the sheltering weight of the high noon.

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Pensive as I was in this lazy afternoon.  Looking out in the window and the hazy light filtered through. Sending dust like a strobe of crystals. I stared. Just stared for the longest time.

The muse didn’t come as I expected.  Like an acrylic tube on the verge of squeezing out  of its contents, I just stared coldly. Nothing spectacular. The portrait on this blank canvas are just collections of imaginary lines and some vague illusions on my mind. And build a colony of dots. Like Van Gogh.

I could paint of scribblings out of nothingness. And my thoughts wander  into wide spaces. And wanders still. I see only spatters of red, black and white against this concrete grayness. Of anger splashing buckets of paint into surface. Like Pollack. 

I could paint the sky blue if I want to.  I can make the leaves of the trees rustle and sway with the winds.  I can make a brook  serenely flow through underneath a little wooden bridge. I can make distant hills fade into indigo. Like Monet.

I could paint a man without a face. And apples falling like raindrops. And doves flying.  The tragedy, the pessimism and idiosyncrasy of a human being. And a dark world encapsuled into an umbrella, black and mysterious. Like Magritte.

I could paint a typewriter with keypads of pain. And some melted clocks. Of swans reflecting elephants. And the gory details of death. Of treachery of reason. Of denouncing fascism. And bizarre existence of realities.  Like Dali.

I could use color yellow and orange interspersed with black squares, sharp angles, cubes and rectilinear forms in human subjects. Of some gothic revivals. Of somber shades of blue and blue green. I can use pink painted into some circus scenes. Of collages with pieces of everyday things. Like Picasso.

The brush is waiting to be lifted.  The easel is upright and ready.  The mixing palette is parched. The canvas is already stretched out to its frame. The sketchbook is laden with unfinished illustrations and  images, waiting to come alive. Where freedom is knocking on this soul’s threshold. 

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