I was eight years old, maybe younger,
trying to exercise the energy
and sight that was within me.
I scribbled in notebooks
and on construction paper,
poems and stories,
trying to put a taste to the sunset
and sound to the orange and pink horizon.
Music came next—
the teenage years of eight tracks and records.
The beauty of the Beatles,
the raw power of the Stones.
My brother on guitar,
me on bass,
fingers fumbling,
strings buzzing,
chasing the low rumbling sound,
the rhythm in my chest.
I decided I’d be a painter.
At twenty, the ***** seemed to work.
Why not color?
Music became the co-pilot.
The canvases flew,
propped on my garage sale easel.
Bruised brushes in cerulean blue
and burnt umber
tried to catch the masters.
Tried to lock in the curves of women,
****
breathing on the canvas.
Every shadow, every soft breast, a lesson.
Every curve, a mistake I couldn’t correct.
Still life came next.
Summer flowers that sagged in my hands.
Oranges went flat without shadow.
Bananas yellowed bright as mustard.
Oils were heavy,
or mixed too thin, like my patience.
My room smelled like turpentine and anxiety.
Years passed.
I switched to oil pastels,
soft enough to bend,
the right texture for my shaky hands.
The fruit became stable.
I drew it with a semblance of pride
and confidence.
Texture and shade became my friends.
The oranges and bananas
smiled and blushed.
Writing returned when I needed it most,
the brushes and broken easels,
the bass and melody
all led here.
The words became my medium,
my voice in the dark.
I write with the same hunger
I had for music and painting,
the same chaotic energy,
the same anxious perfectionism
that only time can tame.
Pages filled like canvases
and recording sessions.
Lines and metaphors
became my landscapes
and nudes reclining on couches,
my bowls of fruit
in morning light.
Now, decades later,
I see the blessing.
Every struggling note I played,
all the fumbling, failing brush strokes,
and forgotten canvases
led me to this.
Words breathing on the page,
colors alive in sentences,
harmony in every metaphor
and carved sentence.