Painting the Darkness

“Someone I loved once gave me a box full of darkness. It took me years to understand that this too, was a gift.” ~ Mary Oliver

“I am a forest, and a night of dark trees: but he who is not afraid of my darkness, will find banks full of roses under my cypresses.” ~ Friedrich Nietzsche, Thus Spoke Zarathustra
A labor of love
of inspiration and dedication
I worked carefully and thoroughly with exquisite care
and attention to every detail
Sometimes with grand strokes
with sweeping waves of paint
 and then other moments with tiny barely-there dustings
mere shadows on the canvas.
My brushes grew as worn and wracked as my body
 until finally
it was time to unveil (birth) my creation.
They looked and looked
and looked again and said
it’s all black…
I said it’s the darkness.
Darkness covering like a silken gown
like the surrounding of a seed before it heeds the summons to reach
like the birthplace of diamonds
like the rivers from your heart that flow silently…
Dark like ink
like the moons hidden face
like midnight.
I have poured the universe out before you,
here for you to marvel at,
to seek its wonders in the oil of its shadowed face
 in the mystery lying as close to you as your shuttered eyelid
and pressing in around every window dropped and fastened against the terrors of the night.
Darkness with all its beginnings and endings 
rituals and murmurs
spilling its secrets out from this wall…
And they looked again
and puzzled over what they perceived as mere lack of light
or absence of color
and my lack of understanding
and then they laughed
and dismissed me.
And then I showed them real darkness.
The merciless darkness that borders,
that rings a raging pyre.
much later,
I cleaned up.
and began to paint again.



About chimerapoet

I write. I write a lot. A. LOT. There are times I am half blind with a sentence ricocheting off the walls of my stupid, cant be shut off to save my life, brain. I am miserable until I get it down on paper. Punch it up a bit. Usually cross out half of it. And then breathe. Relax. Only to do it all again..... But I just thought that was me. How I am. Not a writer....noooo...not me. Writers are.....writing people. People Who Write. REALLY write. Write things that matter. All grown up very important things. I am just a scribbler of sorts. And I was/am content with that....if it's true, well then....a scribbler am I. Until the thought wormed its way in to my brain (the furtive sneaky bitch) that maybe...just maybe...that is writing. My style. My strange way. But....still writing. So here I am at the dance. Not sure I know any of the moves and the music is entirely mine. But.....only one way to find out. Would you care to join me?
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