Still Life…

Chin up
Eyes down and hold it
the light is perfect

Sometimes I wonder
how she can direct me
so casually

Don’t look at the camera

But I know
her brown eyes
are behind the lens

Watching me
anticipating my every move
waiting for that perfect shot

What am I to her?

A beautiful
sculpture of marble
from days of roman conquest?

I’m a man
So I’m “handsome”
not beautiful…

Men can’t be beautiful

Nonsense
a ridiculous notion
from a homophobic youth

As if
affectionate platitudes
could direct my desire to a polar opposite

It is more likely, though, I am a landscape…

The sea
frothy and green-grey
against the black sky after a storm

a piece
of driftwood that gravity and force
decided to lay in the shape of  heart on the sand

or maybe I am a still life….

A vase
of crystalline green
tenderly embracing a clutch of roses

An inert
ink pot and quill
resting patiently beside a poet’s empty journal

possibly an architectural wonder?

The old
rusty train bridge
that spans the muddy creek

The crumbling
stones and vine-covered
walls of a long dead temple of ancient times

don’t look at the camera

But I
want her to see
more than in inverted image on photo paper

More than
her flash bulbs
and lens covers, backdrops and light-meters

So I pray that Apollo completes his fiery ride quickly…

burning daylight
squandering the scenery
smiling as the shadows grow long and her smile fades

Welcoming twilight
That it will hide the scars
the rusted ironwork and rotting timber planks

that it will show me as…not this crumbling fortress…

But, to her eyes, a gilded palace,

glittering in the morning sun

 

 

 

About Eric

Writer/Plumber/Poet/Father/Gentleman/Romantic
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