A Thing Of Worth
As a painter dabs this colour or that
From a palette arrayed with vibrant choice,
Conjuring unknown greens for grass,
And forming unknown blues for sky,
A startling vermilion for poppy-red,
A yellow unseen for blazing sun,
This is what I strive to do.
I would paint canvases with words
Splashed random across a page’s face.
Pen for brush and words of subtle shade,
A vocabulary mixed from many voices
And tuned to many ears
Creating a thing of worth.
But what I have are
Match-stick men for Reuben’s nudes,
Crude scratches that ape da Vinci’s strokes.
Rough carvings for Michelangelo’s David,
Myopic blurs of Monet’s impressions,
Unworthy servant at the master’s feet.
Only, if only I could aspire to such a thing
I would give near all I have
And more.
Such heights escape my meagre reach
Those lofty goals, a madman’s dream.
I must content myself with doggerel
And targets that exceed my worth.