Figments of Pigment
Shiney strands of Mardi Gras beads
Hanging in fuschia, green, purple, and gold
Across the doorway entrance to the hall,
A black fringed shawl, draped in layers
As if in a store window, displaying all wares.
A mask with massive green and purple feathers
Greet you at the entry of the narrow passage.
Mementos of a past visit to Louisiana,
The French Quarter, New Orleans:
Exquisitely glittering faceted partywear.
Opposing wall of opposing achievements:
Framed certificates and dipolmas hang,
Named, ribboned, plaques with dates,
Like ceramic tiles fiting deco function.
Pigments of blue and yellow
Beckoning from the end of the hall
Where Van Gogh's framed prints,
"Starry Night" and "Night Stars,"
Hang as larger tiles in the hallway
Outside my room of serenity and peace.
The room at the end of the hall,
Where nobody goes, except me.
I pass through more purple beads
Through another doorway, swaying along
With a clinking entrance's ease,
To the room I call Emily's,
Though in it she no longer stays.
'Twas her's in past days.
A print of impressionist's fields,
Hung next to "Arles with Irises" by Van Gogh,
Off center, askew, in their hasty placement.
I can see waves of purple values painted
Upon my wall, designed as a creative outlet.
Golden and varied fields of amber, in prints,
Show examples of much greater achievement.
I stare into the dimness of the room,
Wanting to make some personal statement,
About me, and the art in my house.
I reach for the paint brush, thinking.
My reach, always, just beyond my grasp.
I want to be an artist.
But I can't reproduce Van Gogh,
Though I swear I can see it here.
Again, I fight for creative nerve, verve,
Against fear of all failure.
I set down the paint brush.
I lay in my bead,
I can see it in my head.
Eyes shutting again, as night falling,
Further, moon shadows filtering
Through the window, across the floor,
Casting light and darkness
From the trees outside, and opaques inside.
A wall of whites, and purples,
All mottled in shades in between,
Offering for a third eye's chakra sheen,
An incomplete fancy paint job,
Producing a look somewhat like marbling,
In the best of my dreams.
Much insomniac time spent staring,
Preparing to go to sleep,
Stretching, relaxing muscles,
Further envisioning the scene,
Somewhere between Monet and Van Gogh
On that wall, still to be painted by me.
I lay still on my mattress of a cloud,
Room awash in dim flickering candlelight,
Cast by many votives about the room.
I stir to find, then light insense.
Settling again, taking in slow
Deep breaths of cool but heavy air,
Making heavier eyelids,
Aroma sweetly surrounding,
Then, almost suffocating.
Those psychodellic colours
In the posters tacked on the ceiling:
The eye, the spiral, the Morrison,
Fully awakened to inflamation in this dark.
The orange, gold, green, pink extreme,
Colours this black light births so brightly,
With one blue bulb in the room,
To steady the mood with peaceful azure pales.
I close my eyes, then peer again.
Two purple lava lights casting
Spector's shadows pendulum swing
In darkly devoted devilish shapes
In this pro impressionistic scene,
Designed in some half-waking dream.
Somewhere between the room I wanted as a teen,
And a room whose entire purpose is storage,
Is my sanctuary to remember, make peace,
Live dreams, old and new,
Most dreams based on good time memories,
But still recalling a nightmare or two.
Posters of four early Mop Tops,
A familiar Abbey Road street scene,
A small 1960's Stones' postcard,
Two of Bugs Bunny's WB logo images--
A framed print with love beads,
And a giant greeting card, questioning,
An autographed picture, signed by the Elvis
Impersonator himself, saying, "To Jane--
"I will always love you tender."
These mementos I want to see and remember,
Because they still can make me smile."
Multicolour thumb tacks hold smaller treasures:
A blue ticket stub from a Moody Blues concert,
Covers of Time and Life magazines,
Proving Paul isn't dead,
Real Elvis photos, Dylan concert t-shirt,
Carly Simon lying on the grass,
Carneige Hall with sections for brass,
John and Yoko, musician with a lyre
And his long dark haired nymph lass,
All pulled from years of keeping news clippings
In my record albums, for the future.
Paint rollers won't do justice
To my mind's eye creations.
A purple marbled wall,
Filled with my impressions and impersonations.
Buckets, brushes, pans, rags,
Ladders, screwdrivers, five paint cans,
All litter my path throughout the day.
Still screaming in my bnrain,
Almost dreaming with an anomolous pain,
"How can I use the pigments that be
To create the figments I see?"
"It's only a wall," I remind myself.
"A painter could fix your mess."
"Pick up the paint brush now. . . ."
Another night, falling asleep
With an occassional fit because of a bit:
Figments of pigments in my head.
The wall that doesn't get painted,
Patiently waiting to be created,
Anxiety, perplexation, consternation,
As again, I try to rest my sleepy head.