By the sea
My Canvas Speaks
So soft are shadows cast by moon
as I stroll through the grass this night
and freckled stars adorn the sky.
For eons they have shared their light.
I am a man that paints the sea,
an artist that paints woman’s blush,
as she is nude and sits for me,
while I touch canvas with my brush.
I am a poet, it would seem,
a man of words, of scribbled ink,
but words fall short, conveying thought.
At least, that’s how I’ve come to think.
A brush to canvas is my world.
It cannot lie, will not deceive.
I paint the word of flesh and blood,
in times of joy, times we grieve.
A canvas lasts, as paper rots,
the thoughts passed on to still be read.
What he creates still brings a smile,
though artist now, long since is dead.
I paint the world, do so in truth.
It is a record of my stay.
When I am swept from off this earth
my canvas will have words to say.