We think it begins as a blank canvas
But there are already textures and imperfections
That influence the likely picture.
A messy conflict of hues emerges;
But then develops, favouring particular motifs and shades
Interspersed with slashes of vivid unpredictability.
Towards the finish it’s calmer, settled,
Fine brushwork highlighting favourite elements.
In the end, if we’re lucky,
We’re framed in wood and admired in reflective thought.
Wow
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Good one: I’m not looking forward to being “framed”!
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No, me neither. But once I’m done, I’m not that bothered whether it’s a nice oak one or a plastic snap frame…
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I am more likely to thumbtacked, unframed to a cork board. Or held by magnet to a refrigerator with my ends curling up after time. π
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Hahaha!! Like it! π
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Nice writing, I’m liking your take on it.
Towards the finish itβs calmer, settled,
Fine brushwork highlighting favourite elements. < those lines resonated in particular.
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Thanks mate! It’s probably my own creeping awareness of mortality…
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A poet as well? I had no idea.
This is beautiful, Nick. I think almost all creative works happen this way.
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Thanks Diana, much appreciated. Poetry is something I dabble in when I’m in the mood & Lion’s poem just lit a fuse for me!
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Nice. There’s nothing quite like an empty canvas, just waiting to be painted on. The embodiment of possibilities. π
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