Coldest day of the season;
But for some reason
I felt hot
Enough to explode
Words I knew
Wouldn’t help process;
In a huff, put on my gloves,
Muffler and jacket
And stepped out
For a brisk walk
At twilight!
On deserted street
Found myself
In front of
Stationery shop
Asking for wax crayons!
Normally I go to florist
For flowers;
The mental image of
My art teacher
Full of dismay
Couldn't stop me
From giving a try.
Climbed up the stairs
Two at a time,
Unlocked the house
Switched on the lights, sat down
Dressed from head to toe,
And took out a blank sheet
Opened the box
And picked a red crayon,
Then there was no stopping me.
Sure the paper
Would be reduced to smithereens;
Drew circles
In a frenzy
And picked
Colours
Which ever caught fancy!
To my surprise
After a little while
My movements became slow
And I began to choose colours with care,
Embellish the edgings aware
Of what would look good where.
It does have impressions
Of my turmoil, but the paper is intact
A painting abstract,
Am impressed!
It’s lying by my side
And as I write
Every few moments, I smile!
You see
There was none
Around
to take it out on;
Was I glad...
Is anybody's guess!
A poem that speaks symbolically on inside turmoil...the choise of the color-red- is apt...good poem, Mamta