Told never to darken the studio at school,
it was a whole lifetime before
I next dipped a brush in burnt ochre
to learn how to paint my dreams.
Loved Byron, Shelley and Keats
but life carved out another career.
I’ve written millions of words,
many years of crafting logic,
conclusions that must ring true.
I’m now free from such conventions,
have contracts with my brushes and my keyboard
to ride rampant, like surfers work wild waves,
create chaos or some order,
perhaps that complex thing between.
But when they lie exhausted,
tortured by their toil,
I ride the swell, eye the crest,
make sure paintings have a voice,
give poems time to dry.
It’s then time to stand in their shapeless shadows,
help them say something softly in a whisper,
so loud it makes you cry.
Few will see the daylight,
to face those nameless souls
for whom they might be meant.
That’s my whitewater moment,
standing proud upon the surf,
when I nod a silent affirmation
to say “that was me, I made that”
and in return made me whole, made me me.