Wednesday, February 12, 2014

Canvas, a poem


What colors shall I paint
upon the blank canvas
of this day? The pigments
dry upon my palette,

the ultramarine and cobalt,
alizarin, gamboge;
stiff-bristled brushes stand
in old coffee cans,

the Yuban and Bustelo,
ready to my hesitant
hand. Another cup
before I work, before

I set brush to this
emptiness? In paint
is every choice, those made
and those I leave in sketches.

Stephen Brooke ©2014

It seems that once I start writing poetry again, it snowballs. For a while---I'll fall into another all-consuming project soon, I'm sure, and the poetry will dwindle.

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