For some
it is a canvas –
A daily painting
Of one’s life.

you painted me like a beautiful picture:

one with our future ahead of us,
one with both of us laughing.

there were strokes of anger
of pain,
of our fights,
but looking at it now,
the aggressiveness of your brush
definitely highlighted the beauty
of the painting:

it showed
the wrinkles of our face when we smile,
the creases of your clothes forming lines towards my arms holding you close,
the light in your eyes when you look at me — as if the world meant to me and i was the only who deserve it.

however,
you left me in a single room.
i thought maybe, i was that special.
that i was one of — or better yet your greatest masterpiece.

as you smiled,
i felt happy.
i thought maybe this was it.
a painting you’re so proud to show the world.

you crept towards the door
went for the switch and turned the lights off.

and just like that, i waited for months
for the lights to go back on.

i knew in my heart,
that this beautiful painting i thought was your masterpiece,
became one of your hidden collections,
that only you could exclusively see.

just like what you did,
to the others before me.

A maverick personality with

a bohemian style of dressing.

A flowing beard and a hat worn obliquely.

He was a painter par excellence,

exhibiting his piece de resistance.

His painting was to any eye a treat

but a part of it was left incomplete.

Left inadvertently or maybe intentionally.

My curiosity got the better of me

and prompted me to inquire brusquely.

The artist answered rather politely,

“I leave it incomplete to stay away from conceit.

To avoid being coloured with it vainly.

And prevent my ego from craving more than what my skill can achieve.

The incomplete painting now made sense to me as I continued to  marvel at his masterpiece.

Paintbrushes ready by your side.
Canvas, put up, ready to be painted,
It's hands placed on it's side.
Hands ready, framing the canvas, putting "everything" in place.
Ocean blue skies stretched across.
Floating tears drifting in the skies.
Paintbrushes trees sat by the side.
Shifting waters busking in the sun's light.
A humble quiet house, would be nice.
With a garden at the side.
Birds in the air, horses down below.
All creatures painted into the canvas.
My family, stood by the house.
Hands on shoulders.
Something was missing....
Where is God?
Is God amiss the trees?
Is God drying up the tears in the sky?
Where is he.
Maybe he is simply, right there, by my side....

I lay in the center of a meadow,
My eyes trail the drifting clouds above,
tracing their paths and drawing sketches on the blue canvas.

Towering evergreen trees surround the meadow,
their leaves creating a ornamental border,
A frame for the flowing sky.

The clouds drift past, into and out of the frame,
a slow parade of shapes
shifting and changing, coming and passing.

This slide show of white swirls dances for me,
in drawn out motions like molasses ebbing from a tree.
They envelope my sight, roots spread from the
back of my head into the meadow floor,
connecting and expanding,
melding me to the ground.

I lay for hours, the clouds morphing to the clear
nights sky, bathing me in moonlight.
Shining stars vibrate, shake in their molds,
and I listen closely to their hushed advice.