Ghost Cafe
Walking alone in an icy wind
wrapped in a shivering blanket,
where will I go on this empty street
of stones like a dead grey carpet?
Winter trees reach out like bones
to take what breath they can
where I gaze at a ghost cafe
to the tune of a gusted tin can
I remember once it bubbled with life
the sound of laughter in happy light
but those people left to follow the gold
and now all that's left is the shadow of night
We spoke there once with delight
about dreams of a palace of art
did you too fly away to the gold, with
memories falling like leaves from the heart?
I can remember your laughter over coffee
as your words danced around on the table
and ideas rose like magic candles
burning as brightly as a mystical fable
The past clatters shut like a metal roller door
on haunted spectres of memories,
pulling the blanket tight from the cold
I fight on against this wind's cold treacheries
My fire of light still burns within against this night
where visions bleed oily colours of paint
in my studio with strength to match heart and soul
with a canvas stretched tight as a drum for a portrait
A study of life in pain and joy, in dark and bright,
in stone and vine, in glass and wine,
in song from the heart, spread out with paint,
creating a feast for the eyes, to greedily dine.
The painter, stands alone, hums in silence,
as loud as an old cathedral organ hive,
driving out the icy wind of frozen reveries,
turning new soil for the seeds of life.
Though I walk alone in icy winds
wrapped in a shivering blanket
as an artist I know these empty streets
and dance upon the grey stone carpet
Jaqi
Bluh
Saturday
4
May
2019
NOTE ~ Does this poem speak of the loneliness of an artist, surrounded by a chaotic carnival of memories, and yet defiant with an inner strength. People may look upon this crazy character, and think them mad, but, what if in their studio they are producing works worth many millions of dollars, not because paint is gold, but because if those works are loved, it is this love that turns the dried oil paint in sheets of gold. It is love that makes art live through millennia, and gain its money value. If the art is not worth the love of generations, then it dies, and sinks into oblivion. But, often the artist is lost from sight in life, behind the finely oiled opinions of others. And like Paul Gauguin's landlord, after the death of the artist, drags a trunk full of the artist's work down to the sea, and pushes it all off the end of a jetty, to float away into oblivion. How many millions of dollars sank in that blind act of madness by a sane landlord? There are many individuals lost in life, who may have inner treasure, hidden from sight.
