He woke to a lone house
And walked in solo a path
Lived only by himself
And cooked just for one
With the radio for company
On days dark and gloomy
Each day was the same
Going on with no name
Except one day every year
Calls someone so dear
“Happy Father’s Day, Dad.”
With a passion for shades
and water colours for tools
he went looking for a school
to learn and become an artist
he knew no new technique
yet his views were unique
teachers told him bug off
you’re no good, get off
he strove still to no avail
all nightlong he scribbled
and daylong he dabbled
tried doing acrylic on canvas
and tested sketches on paper
shady outlines, weak curves
many hiccups and near give ups
years of toiling and redrawing
rework, redesign, recolour, repeat.
And people called Artists naturals.
She bruised herself at soccer,
her play doh castle crumbled,
she finished last in the game,
and always dropped the ball,
she missed homerun by a mile,
and was late for the park swing,
Her parents thought it embarrassing.
The four year old thought it fun.
Jump through a hoop
and walk a tightrope
pull off a jig on the side
laugh like you like it.
They toss you in the air
and jeer at your jest.
You hang on to a pole,
waltz through the vault,
it’s all about flexibility —
twisting to their humour.
You have your training,
in swinging and spinning
whether a club or your head,
you look like a buffoon,
part of the human zoo.
Life’s a circus, ain’t it?
I scroll through drafts
old rants, and musings
interesting, a few boring
so much of controversy
splashing enlightenment.
Perhaps I should rework,
rekindle dying flames.
People love old stories,
advice from grannies.
I could just rephrase
the title and the lines
No one would know
that I’ve reused words.
No one needs to know
of that great block
blocking my world.
Because none knows
it is that intimidating
to stare, sitting on a table,
at a blank page, unable.
