Daubing paint as carefully as I know how.
An image begins to take shape
But it’s a chair, not a meadow
Filled with sunlight and daffodils.

Choosing colors carefully,
I mix pale blue and yellow
But instead of green it turns out gray,
And all I can paint with it is rocks.

I study all the Masters
And marvel at their work
My stomach knots in envy
At the skills I don’t possess

Wishing I could someday
Create something to compare
Wishing I could find the key
To unlock stunning visions.

Clean canvas and another brush
My mind can see the painting
As I work to find it in the paint
I’m mixing on my palette

I labor with unending zeal
Overpainting all my errors
Searching for the beauty in my strokes
Hoping I have broken through

To join the pantheon of Masters.
Standing back to take a look
At the fruit of all my labors
I see another painting of a chair.
ljm

sometimes my nimble fingers
slide across these coarse pages
subconsciously but smoothly
as if having a conversation,
filling these blank pages
with ghost stories
collected from the sages
of past ages unknown,
almost flirting with my sanity
running off on their own
like a free bird
talking to me
'Hey, are you reading this?
Look, I'm writing poetry!'.

finely tuned
frequencies
of vibrating
harmony