Poetry

Acrylic

by
James Thompson

I had wished it were watercolor,
this painting swayed in strokes, brush-marks
arrayed in motion, textured pathways
of wall, ceiling, floor, window, door
each a shade, each hue unmatched.

 

I'd seen it before, this room, this place
the door slightly ajar, the light beyond
and the shadows, never still
moving always in her soothing voice
or his rolling baritone.

 

Oil? Perhaps acrylic, the sharp edges
the unbent corners, powered ripples
all slipping from the sunlight
bright rays through the window
the graceful dance of the dust flickering to dark.

 

Behind the door, now closed
the muffled shouts and cries, then whispers
an ebb and flow, heartless -- unthinking.
Indulgent colors, layered light to dark
the hard pain of red, a razor blue and black.

 

And the frame fit the room, the painting of the room:
slightly warped and gouged, stained
in a dried blood red, satin shellac
vibrating on the wall, heavy footsteps
a pleading voice muffled, a door opens, then slams.

James M. Thompson is a construction professional, who, after a twenty-year hiatus, began writing again about seven years ago. He has published poems in Indian Heritage Quarterly, Frogpond, The Journal of the American Haiku Society, Lynx and The Texas Poetry Calendar 2004. James also has poems published in numerous online publications and sites including Sol-Magazine, Rose and Thorn, Voracity, Eve's Habit and Mail Call Journal as a second place finisher in their Fall 1998 History Poetry Contest.