Abstract By aldo kraas, www.PoetryPoem.com/poet11586 Unlock all Features - Upgrade to Poetry Prime
It was a sunny
early morning
nearing the end of May.
I had walked the beach
many times,
and always at that time of day.
I'd seen the chap before
sitting on a small three legged stool.
In front of him an easel stood.
A rucksack close at hand.
I determined that upon my return
I would pass nearer
as curiosity was my curse.
I approached and he lay his palette down
sitting for a moment,
peering over his easel into the distance.
I looked too for this appeared to be his subject
but there was nothing to see … but SEA!
No bobbing boats, no buoy,
No children playing in the surf.
Intrigued, when I drew level with him
but some three feet away, we exchanged pleasantries.
“Nice day”
“Aye, a nice day.”
I saw the painting clearly then,
and politely turned away.
I'd imagined pastel colours,
honey for the beach perhaps.
Azure for the sea,
or green.
But the painting was an abstract
like nothing I'd ever seen.
The colours were so garish,
so dark and overcast
And a thick black line ran down the middle
cutting the painting in half.
As for the artist himself
he had a craggy lived in look.
His age I dare not say.
I walked on, then back.
I simply had to ask.
What was his inspiration
sitting here by the sea,
to paint an abstract painting?
I felt bold but ill at ease.
I didn't want to offend
but neither could I please.
“What the hell is it?”
Before I had time to think
the words had tumbled from my mouth.
He turned, he looked and eyed me up and down
and then, in an act of defiance I am sure.
Swiftly took a brush, dipped in scarlet red
and on his painting daubed a mouth,
grotesque but yet quite fitting.
“I sat here for inspiration,” he said
“I had a sort of ‘painters block'.
But you have freed me up from that
“Good day!”
And with that I was dismissed.
I glanced back as you do
but he'd disappeared from view.
I never saw him there again…
On a trip to London
many years later, I was invited
to visit an art gallery with a friend.
We came upon an exhibition of abstract art
and to my horror
I saw my mouth once more.
Exhibited for all to see.
Gaping, gobby, scarlet red,
I just hope no-one else recognised ME!
And then the artist I espied
I dared to approach once more.
“I'm the lips”, I cried. “Your inspiration at the seaside”!
He turned and smiled and cocked his head.
“Ah yes', the lips – I remember them well. You were rude”.
“And so were you “, I said
And then we laughed and agreed
that some things are better left - unsaid!
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