It's Still Life

An Ekphrastic Poem: A Contemplative Man

The sky is full of his thinking,
he is an old soul, and communes
with the footsteps of ancestors.

Metaphors float in olive oil,
and chunks of bread for dipping.
And like magic, his eyelids smile,
and we fall into his eyes.

Paint brushes in a chalice,
sculpted metal, filamental freedom.
Air fills with scented pages of books,
and maps, palette knives and pens.

A stretched canvas is against the wall.
He paints a portrait of a man whose
mysteries are lost in his own tattoos.

A man with a September face
that preserves sacred languages
and sentient soft songs.

He says the portrait is not of himself.

Note: image updated. Some artwork is created using Midjourney AI, and is identified as such in the ALT text or captioned. Imagery and poems ©Misky 2023.