Not Quite Monochrome
Early in the morning. A grey day.
Soft. Gentle. Not quite monochrome.
Something in me wants to take a brush
to the sky.
It needs some pink. Some orange.
a taste of fire.
I have had enough of monochrome in your life.
No more pen and ink. No more pencil.
Give me oils in hues that would make Titian blush.
Serve me passion for breakfast.
A dash of whisky in my coffee
as I pretend to be Hemmingway in Cuba.
Picasso in Paris. Something far closer
to myself than I ever would have believed.
About this poem
There was a time I lived in a place of black and white and grey. My walls were white. My art work was pen, ink, pencil. Something changed a decade or so ago, soon after my daughter moved up here to live with me. Suddenly, color mattered. Color showed up everywhere. On my walls. In my art. In my clothes. Don’t ask me why. I am sure a shrink somewhere would have a field day with it all.
But I am happier with it.
PS: The picture was taken on the Hudson River. It’s not a monochrome shot, though at first glance you think it is. Like a lot of people.