Tag Archives: blank

2415.  Same old story

Christabel wanted to write a story for her blog but she couldn’t think of anything to write about so she watched a video instead and it didn’t have much of a story either.

A friend asked Christabel, “What’s the story about you not writing a story today?” and she said it was a long story.

“I’m not into tall stories for no reason,” said Christabel. “To make a long story short, some bloggers resort to a shaggy-dog story when they’re hard put to post a story. I’m not going to tell some cock-and-bull story just because some readers want a breaking story.  End of story.”

“A likely story. Sounds like a hard-luck story to me,” said Christabel’s friend. 

“That’s another story,” said Christabel. “It’s always the same old story. It’s the story of my life. A sob story here, a fishy story there.”

“Yes,” said Christabel’s friend. “There are always two sides to a story. I like the way that today’s accompanying picture is simply a white blank. What’s the story there?”

“Every picture tells a story,” said Christabel.

Poem 97: Self-portrait on a blank canvas

(Today’s story will make an appearance at midday (New Zealand time). But first I wanted to post a poem. This is the third (and possibly final) self-portrait poem. The first was “Self-portrait in landscape“. The second was “Self-portrait in still life“. And here’s the third – “Self-portrait on a blank canvas”. Thanks for taking the time to read/listen!)

The blank canvas calls for colour;
a pale blue perhaps for endless sky,
a fresh-filled swimming pool,
Our Lady of Lourdes,
a blue cat.

Perhaps a vibrant green
for vernal growth,
jade parakeets,
new chestnut leaves,
bile spewed or envy all-consuming.
Not everything on a palate’s palatable.

Blotches of red;
too much splattered that
the portrait’s doomed and ruined.
Scarlet garnets show for miles.
There’s no grace in brazen crimson,
no joy in bloodshot blood.
I wish that red would fade.

Other tints ungrace and grace the picture:
a cowardly yellow,
fractured gold,
orange sunlight shattered, a purple patch,
brown (common brown), a slice of black, a splash of grey,
bits of missed transparent canvas.

Sometimes a person comes along
and scrawls unprompted in a space.
Most (but first let me stir another sweetened brew)…
most enter; and exit after scribbling… nothing much.
They mutter in their passing, “What a… what a mess.”

I’m sorry, but it’s all there is and it’s all I’ve got.

To hear the poem being read click HERE!