| An old man paints the ocean |
| [For Ben Brooks Jr. (1920-1994)] |
|
| You, that old man who paints
upon the seashore |
| behind your canvas: helmsman
proudly at the wheel; |
| your windwhipped battered hat
that daunts bright sunlight, |
| perched daring on your mane of
grizzled steel. |
| Your gnarled hand deftly dabs
in practiced brushstrokes |
| a paintbrush's precious
pigment-laden trove |
| upon a canvas you are lovingly
bestowing |
| the colors of the waves your
dreams would know. |
| And should your crinkled silver
eyes upon their journey |
| not take their notice of that
sometime rain |
| of skyblue paint, or quiet tiny
teardrop, |
| meandering your cheekbone's
timecarved lines, |
| you'd bite your lower lip and
stare intently |
| upon your palette blues and
whites define. |
| And though I'd only known this
side of you a short time, |
| a lifetime's patient practice
stayed your faith -- |
| so shimmering sunlight's touch
could never fathom |
| those deep tanned craggy
canyons of your face. |
|
| Could yet my eyes see all your
canvas shows me -- |
| white wheeling seagulls hung
from bleachblue sky |
| like bright kites' endless sail
on unseen tether, |
| that seek the white sand's
seashells in their flight, |
| above pale dunes where swaying
sea oats slumber |
| in twine-tied lattice's
embrace. |
| So you would contemplate and
capture sight and vision, |
| and how your eyes and hand
remembered all |
| that stirred around you, yet
still never notice |
| your easel slowly sinking in
soft sand. |
| You would stand silent watch as
God's creation |
| slept on in sea and sky and
sand's embrace, |
| and distant waves in timeless
turqouise fury |
| still crash ashore in
whiteness' foaming spray |
| one upon one, much like those
days uncounted |
| your life has spent in silent
watchful gaze, |
| and in your quiet paintings you
have given |
| who you have been as your gift
back to me. |
|
|
| © Jon Bohrn (1997) |
