When I Paint My Masterpiece
There it is right in front of me,
the perfect poem,
a masterpiece
like a silk thread tapestry
woven by the hands of a master.
My eyes stare in disbelief
at how it meanders on the page,
glowing as I bask in its structure,
the sheer clarity
as I discover the workings of his mind.
I am surprised
as I stutter,
wading through his old verse,
this mad scientist of the past,
cutting words and dicing them.
Pulling them apart
and making them dance like a puppeteer,
with stanzas hanging from a string,
the eloquent poise of the great crowd pleaser.
Arranging them and stretching the syllables,
wrenching the vowels,
throwing commas like daggers
into this idea of a poem.
And he must have stood above it,
the finished product, admiring his creation,
wondering if death should follow his greatest success.
Achieving perfection
and fading in a whimper,
the last scuppered words
'my work is done'.
But no such luck for me
as I drag my pen through the drivel,
the mundane flicker and fuss
of a mind full of rust.
And I hope someday
far off in the future
I will finally clear the clutter
in my broken-down mind
And shout ‘Eureka’
as I find that same elation,
relief that I'm finally done.
When I paint my masterpiece.
Clifton Redmond
the perfect poem,
a masterpiece
like a silk thread tapestry
woven by the hands of a master.
My eyes stare in disbelief
at how it meanders on the page,
glowing as I bask in its structure,
the sheer clarity
as I discover the workings of his mind.
I am surprised
as I stutter,
wading through his old verse,
this mad scientist of the past,
cutting words and dicing them.
Pulling them apart
and making them dance like a puppeteer,
with stanzas hanging from a string,
the eloquent poise of the great crowd pleaser.
Arranging them and stretching the syllables,
wrenching the vowels,
throwing commas like daggers
into this idea of a poem.
And he must have stood above it,
the finished product, admiring his creation,
wondering if death should follow his greatest success.
Achieving perfection
and fading in a whimper,
the last scuppered words
'my work is done'.
But no such luck for me
as I drag my pen through the drivel,
the mundane flicker and fuss
of a mind full of rust.
And I hope someday
far off in the future
I will finally clear the clutter
in my broken-down mind
And shout ‘Eureka’
as I find that same elation,
relief that I'm finally done.
When I paint my masterpiece.
Clifton Redmond