SIT NEXT TO ME

 
A blank canvas
A brush and a dish
A pot of paint but what colour will I choose?
What will I draw?
A lady with a fine dress, and high heeled shoes?
A pretty face?
Sleeves with lace?
What colour hair?
Eyes, will they stare?
Blue, green or brown
A smile or a frown?
Will she paint tired
Will her looks be admired?
Perhaps she will be well placed with royalty
Or a poor person
A look that makes her appear guilty?
Sit with me at my easel, and see what I have chosen?
Will she be feeble, or strong?
Will she be adventurous, or in time frozen?
 Stuck in a rut
Looking over her shoulder
Waiting at home for her long-left soldier
Will he be back?
Shall I reach for the black?
Shall I give her a sunhat?
Does she look the kind to own a cat?
What does a person look like who owns a cat?
Hmm. So, much to think about
But what a privilege without a doubt
I’m fortunate
I can create a life
A talking point
As art is what the eye see’s and the mind excepts
Art can’t have any regrets
It’s a sin to disregard what we dislike
For our mistakes, is someone else’s light
Out of the darkness
Away from madness
Somewhere to go
Even if it’s only a visit to their mind
Imagination
Passion
But what for those who are blind?
What do they see before them?
If they hold a pen
How can they create a picture?
A life?
Do they see the blood on the knife?
The end of a life
The birth of a child
The beauty of the wild
From a storm to weather so mild
What is the sun to them but for the heat?
What is a connection
If eyes don’t meet
Life without colour
Must be a lonely place
Expressionless features
Upon the face
Sadness in a fallen tear
A rise of a glass at the end of the year
A love so fair
A match as dark as the night
A star jumping in fright
The moon glowing with delight
An owl in flight
A fisherman looking for a bite
A hunter traumatising a rabbit in fear
A killing machine, poised to a deer
Sitting here
What will I paint?
A cottage ever so quaint?
With a straw roof
Sitting on top of a head of stone
All alone
In a place so remote
 Or on the rough see’s
A boat
Biting through the waves
In a mist
A haze
How do I get that effect?
Nothing is perfect
Life isn’t so, why should my picture be
Oh, shells and rocks along the sea
A Stoney beach golden sands are just a memory
Driftwood finds its way to shore
Collect it to make a barn door?
Or a coat rack
And paint it black
And here we have my painting
Thank you for waiting
The sea is in the distance
A Victorian lady looks like she is doing a dance
Pointed tows tap naked on the sand
Lifting her long dress
Not to get it in a mess
Her floppy bonnet
She beams as she misspoken wet
Tiptoeing through the white waves
Out to see are all the graves
To the lost sailors and crews
The mixture of blues
Green and whites
The sailing boats and yachts
A perfect spot
To paint a picture
But does it have to be for the world to see?
Perhaps I should keep it in my mind
As that is where a person who is blind
Keeps their art work
Not on a wall
Or a shelf so tall
Looking like it’s going to fall
  From somewhere small
Like a coffee table
Or a knight stand
Welcome to my land
My world
Where coal looks like gold
And secrets should never be told
Open your mind and frame your life
Let it be whatever it wants to be
Set your mind free
Sit next to me
See if you can paint, what I can see