Corner Man (Poem)

Many said he sat upon his corner,
canvas on a spindly easel,
and painted smile after smile after smile.
Upon filling the canvas,
he would paint it over black, and continue painting smiles.
No one who passed him ever left without happiness on their face.
The corner where he sat stared at a small park,
and millions passed each day.

Then one day, a building rose up scattered,
high, looming and gray.
The park disappeared,
along with the smiles on the man's canvas.
Gloom settled in like nighttime on a bird's nest.
The canvas remained white,
and covered in straight-mouthed faces.

The ink dried, and slowly people forgot where the man sat.
Slowly, people forgot how to smile,
and eventually only splinters of a broken frame lay scattered on the curb.

Canary Streets (Sketch)

First Day of My Life (Sketch)

Crumbling (Sketch)

Sword Hilt (Sketch)

Going Home

He smelled the wet canvas, fresh,
recently finished after a lifetime of work.
He gazed at the picture and words,
swirling in a maelstrom of activity,
blending, blurring speaking clearly from a distance,
shouting in his ear.
The painting stood, head height,
two arms wide,
a cacauphony of color no one could understand.
His left hand held the last brush,
his right locked firmly on the grainy wood behind.

It was purposeful then,
when he tipped a pint of thinner over the top,
and watched it streak muddiness down the length,
like a rejected lover walking down a midnight lit street.

It was purposeful then,
when he punched a hole in the corner,
and cracked the frames' spine over his knee,
a lifetime of work, a masterpiece
smeared on the dark hue of his denim.

His feeling of failure,
at destroying the picture
at letting down the craft,
knew no bounds.

The joyous laughter of the paints,
colors, brushes calling him back,
calling him for another go,
were subdued now,
watching sadly as he slumped down the wall,
a rolled clump of canvas clenched furiously in his fist.