Colorblind Artist
The colorblind artist is true to his craft.
Toils in his studio summer heat, cold draft.
His is a poor and lonely occupation,
smell of his oils his only consolation.
He paints in the dull drabs of brown and gray,
his retina lacks cones; born that way.
Poor beyond poor, since his folks passed away,
in his father's old studio where he used to just play.
But now he must work feverishly for his supper,
but everything to sell is a downer, not an upper.
With hope nearly gone, stripped to the must,
he works with the light from dawn to dusk.
In the dark of night he cries in his lust,
what woman would have him, a total bust.
Then one day, a young maiden peeks in the door,
sees his sweaty arm muscles feverishly at war.
She's struck by his pale blue Iris eyes,
smitten in an instant, she helplessly cries,
"Where have you been all of my life?
What must I do to become your wife?"
The artist is shocked at the girl's boldness,
he cannot sadly deny her with any coldness.
She works so hard to make him happy,
praises his work, although a bit sappy.
In due time, a pretty little daughter comes along,
she's bright and precocious, like a song.
She comes in his studio and gets in his paint.
"No, daddy, not that one… This one is great!
Posted on the Internet, sales have been slow,
but the new paintings posted are quick to go.
A fine art critic arrives on the scene,
looks at his paintings, like a surreal dream.
With color so vibrant, striking and bold,
a reminder of Van Gogh, starving artist of old.
A gallery showing in the Big Apple is cast,
colorblind artist has recognition at last.
He sees only green coming through his door,
his wife quits her job; his daughter to adore.
Copyright 2016 © Ronald W. Hull
6/11/16
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Kathy
I like this
Dan
Someone entering his life enriching it with the color of money.
Jon Peter
Always,
Deborah
but this poem was a colorful gem to find.
Michael D.
Love ya!
Jane
David