Blended
a poem
freehand in the black still-life memories fire through my nerves in strokes of white clack clack clack a conjured cadence these expressions are some of my own seen with my own eyes, some were read gifted from timeless text imagined on my part but still felt like braille under the fingers of my mind so that an image coalesces divined by hand and fate loose at first tighter in the revelation
This weekend I was messing around with my son’s chalkboard again. A clean black void somehow reflected back some sunlight in a pretty way as I proceeded to draw. I scratched lines without any real intent, a true freehand, and I found myself creating a portrait. Who is it?
As soon as I went beyond the face, started etching the red curves of the neckline it hit me. That’s Ernest Hemingway. Perhaps it’s just the turtleneck that elicits the 1957 photo by Yousuf Karsh, or perhaps its because I’ve been reading his short stories that he came through.
My son pointed his little finger at it. “Dad.”
Well that made me reconsider. Hey, that does look like me, albeit an older handsome version. I am not saying I’m Hemingway. But I like how my admiration for him blended with my self-expression in this instance. Heck, if I make it to winter of my life having had some adventures and stories that are worth reading I will be happy.
More from me:
A good dose of Guzman in the morning always seems to jolt my creative spirit. I love every piece you put out man. Also, great chalk work by the way.!
Nicely done man! Love your ability to use different mediums and even combine them. I definitely see the Hemingway (and Cormac) influence in your work.
You keep writing poems like these and you might eventually get me into poetry one of these days…