The Canvas of Me
There are no thoughts to string together. My mind is twisted and bends in the weather. The storm comes and goes but stays longer now. The wrinkles form and I furrow my brow. It's not a problem, I've earned my stripes, the bruises and insults and all of the gripes. I'll take it further and simply move on. I focus on moments that define my home. Those moments that linger into the past. They do not last.
On Sunday, I'm blue, and I can not sleep. I've lost my cat which makes my heart weep. I am haunted by cries and phantom scratching. I've relentless dread that fear's babies are hatching. I'm looking away. This color is gray.
It's Monday now, I'm on automatic, my heart is anew and my words are pragmatic. The Doctor and I have fun with each other. We jest and tease yet I could be his mother! The prognosis joke-us is fungus on chin. Excuse me? Will you say that again? Yes, don't stress yourself much, and keep it dry. I laughed out loud but I silently cried. I wanted to scream. This color is green.
Tuesday I'm blessed with the day before dead. I'll focus myself clear my chaotic head. I'll think of my cat and drive by on a clue. A clue that was spoken as clearly as you, might say, "Go there now, see what you can do." I found him alone, next to the wall, next to a shrub and next to a hall. His eyes nearly lifeless and in so much pain. He waited until I could help him to gain, the goodness of God and the blessings from you. This color is blue.
Wednesday, I loose my temper and shrill, Stop what you're doing! Can't you stay still? Must you run, must you yell, must you get in my face? Have you no shame? You are a disgrace! I'm angry and scared and I'm guilty too. I no longer know what there is to do. This hurts my head. This color is red.
Thursday is when I stand up and say, I'll make this a good day, "with Sun, I'll make hay". I'll get the job done, I'm focused, on task. I'll make what I do be important and last. I'll wait for the time that I may leave, to start that part with the other me. I'm not mellow. This color is yellow.
Friday, the pressure has built, yet it's good. The poison releases, I've misunderstood. The lashing of words, the fear-ridden courage. I've faked my way through to this moment of truth. The moment the birds fly from off of the roofs, from off of the tree tops, from off of the fencing. My heart lifts up, there is no flinching, I join in their flight, the freedom they give, it makes my heart quicken, and be happy to live. This is my circle and the color is purple.
Saturday is the day where I stand, this moment, this instance for no other reason than to do all I can, be where I am found, be all of the things that have covered this ground. This day is my puzzle, some pieces are golden, some pieces are lost or hiding or stolen. There is no sorrow, only relief, when I think that these pieces all change with the morrow. I lay pieces down. This color is brown.
Each day starts anew and my mind is a mistress to things that surround me as it sweetly whispers, "It's there, no it's here, no it's everywhere. Look under the sofa, look under the chair. The canvas! You had it! It's surely not broken."
I place all my days upon a shelf and save colors and hues, I call myself. The shadows, the straight lines, and all those that hoover so closely to see what there is to be seen. The splash of this orange and the pain of the red. I think it may be time you get out of my head. What else is out there that hasn't been done, that one such as I could make different to one? That one being seed to a new crop of thoughts, those thoughts make new paths and shine light into dark. It's a walk in the park.
The patterns repeating, yet constantly fleeing, in search of a canvas that's larger for seeing. Looking for greens, and the healing they hold, I reach for some white, to add to the light. The grays and the browns are easily found. The black and orange are not all that foreign. The colors all motion to brushes near by, asking what will you paint here before you die? It's not all that bad, if mixed with the good. There's room for more colors to visit this hood. This nest of ideas, creations and zest, the blending of chaos and structure they'll bless.
Yet days become night and I lie in my bed. I wake to new canvas spread under my head. The curtains are blowing, there's movement of fabric, the clang of the blinds mock the thoughts in my mind. These sounds name their colors and they all return, they give me my choices, the life from the urn. But today they are different in all of the ways that I thought I had sorted them just yesterday.
What colors will tell you of what is my life when my voice dares to speak, when my spirit does rise? What image will rest on this canvas so sweet? What colors will tell you of what's left of me?
© Deborah Leeson 2006
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