On a misty, dark rainy day,
I sat down and started painting
on a paper blank and white as snow
And there, in middle May
the scene became alive with summer seas
shaping land of rivers and pontoons
and something strange happened then...
We took a walk and stopped by the marshlands
with the burning-red match-stick poplar
Rooted in a vast and barren landscape,
touching white winter grass,
its dark brown bark defrosted
from the harsh winter sun...
Equally familiar were islands of Dragon kings
Ghosts from the books of fairy folk mystery
Resting beneath crystal blue-bells
And the ghostly white garments of hawthorns,
embraced by wild willowy mulberry vines
Colors flirting amongst autumn leafs
on a canvas spookily white and alive
Blue, green and bold fluorescent stripes
Of mountains, crayon white clouds and;
Acrylic flaming skies and who am I
Merely a painter of words and worlds
That does not seem to meet, but
for the thin white line seperating them?
And am I to know it, see it all?”
all these colours in my vision and veins
and to know such things as that;
Without grasping or deeply knowing
why I am so strangely alive.