WHAT HAPPENS WHEN PAINTING


A note was left
On the fridge that
Said

I’d make it
Soon
To that place where

The edges are rubbed out
The walls have vanished

Puffs of smoke keep moving
Toward light and darkness.

I wondered about it
And felt a strong dejavu.

Kept moving
To that place
I think I’d known.

I got into the studio
And moved with brushes
Paints and all sorts of things
On hand.

My fingers became loud
With voice

And closed up over my throat.

I’m alone in this place
I’m traveling to with the scent
Of paint on my tongue

And the rubbing of canvas,
It sometimes is a great hurt.

I touched the breast of solitude
And pressed against her chest with
My cheek

Lovingly held her there in
This room with no walls.

We centered in on vastness
And I let-go my brushes in to space
And felt never again
The desire to be up and around others

With their stories and
Dramas and likes and dislikes
And closed rooms
Like chains that come with birth.

I became the atoms under your feet
And it was better than solitudes affection.

You never noticed me there
But my paintings spoke
About what I once did,
How I once lived.

And you saw the map to my soul.
But I was already gone.
Nowhere nearby to discuss it.

For the love of openness,
I stretched beyond

And you finally stretched too

And moved that mountain
We once perceived impossible.

stephanie lorentzen

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