Poem Hunter
The Wicked Brush
ME (05/31/1962 / NJ)

The Wicked Brush

Sadly, I sat down by a pond.
I wished to paint, but I had no brush.
My roller had fallen into a millpond.

My tableau lingered in part for now.
I had to buy a new paint brush.
Tired from work, I put my pad down.

I stared into the dirty fount.
My reflection shined oddly.
A tear dropp dribbled lowdown.

My photo in the water broke apart.
I concealed my face in shame.
I had no brush to finish my art.

Then a drifting man saw me crying.
He asked, 'Why are you so sad? '
I have no brush to finish my drawing.

Is that the only cause you shed a tear?
Here, I just happen to have a pencil.
Finish your picture while I sit here.

The hues flowed ever so freely.
My made-up kingdom came alive.
The scene appeared dreamy.

This crayon is to please.
I can draw anything I want,
And it becomes almost real.

Mr. this brush, 'Where did you get it? '
A famous Artist once gave it to me.
I don’t need it now, you may keep it.

Thank you for the beautiful art brush.
The man rose and endured his journey.
Slowly the day turned to dusk.

I got up with all my art supplies.
My oil sticks dripped color along the path.
The dribbling stains created a special light.

The valley revised in an enchanting region.
There must have been magic in that paint.
A polished line surrounded the section.

Then I saw a bed of red roses.
I picked one flower from the garden.
Suddenly the valley changed tone.

The majestic glow faded from sight,
There was no more fine line in the land,
And easily the petals from the rose died.

Something in my hand was wicked.
The stick, no doubt it had to be that.
I returned to the bath and threw it.

I watched the brush sink.
The world restored to reality.
Sad my pen was such a risk.

The brush drew so artistically.
Then, 'What occurred to my print? '
I grabbed my pad quickly.

The image changed outright,
The unreal kingdom was gone,
And a black rose put back the design.

Where was this explorer traveling?
This man gave me the magic brush.
He must have been a spiritual being.

I guess I will never know his home,
It is probably better not be discerned.
I would have said a word to him alone.

Anyway my wicked brush was far away,
The land returned to its normal reality,
And the roving man never revisit this way.

User Rating: 3,2 / 5 ( 3 votes ) 2

Comments (2)

Thanks for the comments. This was a fun poem to write. I sometimes write in fable format or fairytale like verses. I find it a change of pace and enjoyable.
A well-spun story in verse form. Nicely pulled-off.