Brush Strokes

Finding time and quiet enough to record anything is a trial in patience. Will try to go back and re-record the others that have stutters in them at some point, but for now, something new.


Brush Strokes

Faces fade.
It’s the hands I remember.
Gnarl-knuckled and square,
with broad fingertips like brush strokes.

My Grandfather’s hands
left a legacy of unfamiliar landscapes.

I flit from one to the next like a dragonfly,
learning though color and texture
how to build fantasies.

Those hands lifted me up, far above harsher terrain.

From that unearthly vantage point,
I witnessed my father’s battering rams
from between the turrets formed by my mother’s fingers.

Being a princess isn’t always easy.
Sometimes, wars are waged,
walls torn down,
built back up again.

Those hands gave me something to believe in
when the King, returned from far off battles,
forgot that his castle was not the enemy.

When the Queen, half-doe on her mother’s side,
made timid lists of excuses for bad behavior
those hands gave me something to hope for.

Trapped between the brutal and the battered,
the Princess grew wings to utilize the only route of escape she had:
Over the castle walls, beyond the endless seas,
carried forth on dragonfly wings into
adventures grander than sunrise
where she chases painted landscapes
wields wild ink like a blade and
becomes small when necessary,
but remains regal on the inside,
inspired by her Grandfather’s hands.

These are my wings:
All sinew and bone
-not hollow –
but light enough to lift me up now that he’s gone
far above familiar landscapes
where the lines begin to blur.
Where the world becomes a canvas.

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