Bloviating Defamer
by Odin Roark

Facing the painted door,

He holds the brush arm's length,
its gunmetal pigment dripping from handle,
his painter's decision delaying the moment,
while emotion’s tendrils
meander down and about my hand and cuff.

Canvases are so patient…

Its wall-size surface
washed of storm-threatening skies overhead
shadow the wind-whipped branches
quivering with fall-laden color
atop freedom's dreamscape
nestled securely inside a welcoming void,
its essence yet to be affixed.

Heroics of another era hover…

Nature’s tortured bark of gallant pride
remains ready to weather
future generations of trick mirrors,
forever protecting wrinkled scar-made smiles
embracing any generation's aged slats,
where rusty nails secure fantasy
as knotted-out windows,
breathe in youthful dreams made real,
even as arms struggle to reach above a hero’s head.

Inside the innocence of old…

Imagined walls once real
where hung a ballpark mitt beside
thumbtacked pictures giving solace
to anxious boyhood dreams,
big boy privacies finds solace
in centerfolds made holy.

How loving

How understanding

A hero’s reflection of youthful fun
knowing his freedom of joy
stubbornly faced the task of growing up
amidst another time.

His adult eyes remain fixed.

Another attempt at success
above the tethered ladder of rope,
his forever-door unfinished
too intricate its lock only penciled.

Dare he color the hasp?
Begin a start?

But then...

To enter
to exit
to return to this.

He slumps in his chair,
once again the brush remains idle,
the palette alive and waiting
even as hands now grip resignation.

Lifting his eyes
from legs once of steel
now but prison camp reminders of what long ago was.

He focuses once again
on the doorway to happier times.

Long buried fantasies once always needed
might resurrect courage to keep out today’s slanderous nightmares,
or usher in new dreams of truth.

It's only a painting, he reminds himself, but...

Perhaps his impaled honor will heal.

Perhaps the defamer will implode in his bubble.