Ah, see? I knew you could do me without having a photo of my actual physical self:Half ThereThat’s me behind the hands, a self-portrait sketched in pencil,smudged and fading into background.That’s me, an empty pan, stainedwith blood or rust or paint, dulled, yes, yet, still reflective.That curve of silver light, that crescent moon, waning, yes, that pathetic half of a halo is the shapeof my despair. Can’t you seemy sadness is the night,that my depression is angeled? That’s me, the shadow cast, that lack of light, the absoluteblackness of an eclipse, lunar, yes. That’s me, the bowl of fruit, the shriveled plum, the uneaten apple abandonedon the table–but there’s no bowl in this still life, no fruitin the picture. See? I toldI was invisible, that I was only ever half there.
Laurel-Our bereaved angel. Our shriveled plum. Ah, how even in despair your heart, stained with blood and rust, demands its love from the world.Good poem.yrs-Scott
Just wanted to let you know I liked this, although I don’t have anything involving to say.Looking at it again, I see a sort of variation that I’d be interested in capturing. The circular object is, I assume, an ashtray–I smoke so I’d hope so. There is a darker region in the top rh corner–I’d be tempted to place a lit cig there–if it doesn’t burn the table, of course, about half-finished, crumbled ashes trailing a horizontal line at the top, dim cig light in the corner.***reminds me of Kafka, too
The Dishwasher's Tears 
Ah, see? I knew you could do me without having a photo of my actual physical self:Half ThereThat’s me behind the hands, a self-portrait sketched in pencil,smudged and fading into background.That’s me, an empty pan, stainedwith blood or rust or paint, dulled, yes, yet, still reflective.That curve of silver light, that crescent moon, waning, yes, that pathetic half of a halo is the shapeof my despair. Can’t you seemy sadness is the night,that my depression is angeled? That’s me, the shadow cast, that lack of light, the absoluteblackness of an eclipse, lunar, yes. That’s me, the bowl of fruit, the shriveled plum, the uneaten apple abandonedon the table–but there’s no bowl in this still life, no fruitin the picture. See? I toldI was invisible, that I was only ever half there.
Laurel-Our bereaved angel. Our shriveled plum. Ah, how even in despair your heart, stained with blood and rust, demands its love from the world.Good poem.yrs-Scott
Just wanted to let you know I liked this, although I don’t have anything involving to say.Looking at it again, I see a sort of variation that I’d be interested in capturing. The circular object is, I assume, an ashtray–I smoke so I’d hope so. There is a darker region in the top rh corner–I’d be tempted to place a lit cig there–if it doesn’t burn the table, of course, about half-finished, crumbled ashes trailing a horizontal line at the top, dim cig light in the corner.***reminds me of Kafka, too
Hey, dude.Yeah, I like it. I quit so there’s no smokes in the house.Ah, well.Thanks for dropping in….was feeling a bit…..well.thanks.Scott
*the stones – beast of burden*nice work.cheers! 🙂