painter's brush

July 16, 2008
By fatou dia, Springfield, VA

Sitting on my bed

My hands on the keyboard

I turn my head on the left

And there …through the window

What beautiful scenery.

What shall I write?

I am thinking

Just what you see

I type…

Tic Tic Tic…

Two red brick houses

And then three beige brick houses

No! Four

No! More. If I incline my head,

A little on the right,

I can see many more.

Tic Tic Tic…

Houses, cars, white windows everywhere

Colors, black, white, grey, dark olive, red and blue

Nature, dead trees, blooming trees, dancing green trees

A flying flag, flowers, dead grass, green grass

And on top of it all

Roofs and deep blue sky

Not a single cloud.

Beauty, peace, serenity

But from where I am sitting

It is as though I am looking at a painting

A beautiful painting,

Still, when my eyes can’t catch a movement

Lively, depending on the whim of the wind

Which is like the flying brush of the painter

That adds a touch here and there

But isn’t part of the scenery

And as I contemplate the view

And feel the peace

But can’t touch the scenery,

Nor hear the sound of the wind,

Nor smell the flowers, the trees…

I yearn and wish I could be part of it all

But I can never and will never be
I am just like a tourist contemplating

A million dollar painting at the museum.

Or simply like myself,

Sitting on my bed

My hands on the keyboard

Incapable of being at two places at the time

Incapable of being the contemplator and the contemplated

Incapable of adding a new element in the scenery I described earlier

Just like a painter’s brush would do

Without creating a totally different scenery

Adding new words and changing the poem altogether.

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This article has 1 comment.

on Aug. 6 2008 at 1:44 am
wow! nice one


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