Posts Tagged ‘painting’

There was a man born of Catalonia,
To whom normalcy was a razor,
Tracing lines of grey across his wrists,
Uniformity he fought tooth and brush,

With an upturned moustache,
And a cane,
He carved a path for artists everywhere,
A proponent of classicism and surrealism,

A true artist,
A personality of eccentricity and controversy,
Ostentatious to some,
But wholly himself,

Works that tore open reality,
A burning giraffe and a lobster telephone,
Galatea and Columbus,
A perplexing mix of science and madness,

A genius without the right to die,
But even allowed to rest,
In the grave,
Beneath a house of art.

The Earth is amidst a storm,
Grey and ghastly skies,
But let us not forget,
When the world is taking in water,
There are those who wish for the future,
To have an upward trajectory,
For division to be subtracted,
Those whose years have not yet seen the gloom,

The youths wield their weapons,
Spraycans and paint,
They wash the drab away,
With images of doves,
And purple fingers crossed,
A mural of prismatic positivity,
In violets and teals,
Tattooing the world with hopeful graffiti,

I envy their zeal,
They wave and call to hopes light,
As it crosses the street,
Elusive hat brim floorward,
Does hope hear them?
Does it see their art?
Does it hear their pleas?
Or does it continue on into the rain?

Now they call him the Painted Man,
But once upon a time he had no name,
A true blank slate,
Eyes of grey,
And colourless hair.

Society gave him his colour,
Everyone who met him painted a stroke,
We were all artists,
His body was our canvas,
Our words to him were the brush.

Red of anger and frustration,
Blues of sorrow and disappointment,
Yellows of joy and excitement,
Greens of envy and want,
And myriad other shades of feeling.

He is now the Painted Man,
A creation of society,
A monument and a monster,
Are we really any different?
Were we not all painted?

Painted