The Watcher….
The Watcher is a rather lengthy poem that offers the reader a mind’s-eye view into the thoughts of a person suffering from a rare form of color-blindness where nearly everything is a shade of grey or at best sepia. It presents an interesting and almost visionary approach to how those who cannot see color feel about its absence in their life.
The Watcher…
Waits, in careful observation of a non-descript bistro table
Flanked by two wrought iron chairs,
Painted black or something dark, in a matching hue
Flowers blooming in the concrete planter on its right,
Open space on the other side
Delicate pink azaleas nestled beneath a potted golden maple
They seem to lean out, stretching as far as they can
While releasing their intoxicating scent in every direction
Rich dark green foliage on the perimeter
Keeps them from toppling to the ground
Only shades of sepia to the watcher
Concrete beneath, clear skies above
Fifteen paces of separation
And a clear field of vision
The Waiting…
Commences an hour after noon has past
The only traffic, the remaining
Lingering couples stretching out their leisure moments together
Clandestine afternoons soon coming to a close
As servers gliding in remind them of the time
Settlements and gratuities
Dishes gathered and whisked away
A last sip of tea, and goodbye
Another coffee yields a measure of time
An allotment of the watcher holding space
In another wrought iron chair
Close, but not too close
Fifteen paces of separation
Memories, in color, the only cartographic connection
Now it’s just waiting for her to arrive
The Vision…
Was a sight that even in reality recalls an endless string of defining moments
But with such an unexpected arrival
The sight rendered a state of confusion
When instead it should have registered something akin to awe not seen in some time
As if the forces of imagination were in play
Spilling their entire pallet on the canvas of said sight
Where what is and what should be, simply become words in a vacuum
Brushstrokes
Their physicality nothing more than a myth of their mechanics
The non-descript bistro table
Also holding space in plain sight
No tender required
The utilitarian objects firmly established as stages for future scenes
Where verses aplenty shall be spoken
Or not, as the moment has yet to decide on the outcome
From thoughts, perhaps speech
The Arrival…
Would be something of splendor
As the expectations were low for success
Thoughts of a quest and the empty-handed returning knight
Crossing other thoughts, creating an idea
But one which was quickly acknowledged and just as quickly
Momentarily put on hold in an extended pause
While all the sounds of the world reduced until mere whispers
One physical vision took control and the figurative vision was granted leave
Eyes locked
As she slowly threads her way through the maze of wrought iron
Splendor it seems has chosen to offer a reward to the faithful watcher
Another step closer
The empty table beckoning
Her comfortable spot that’s warm but not too bright
Familiarity of past encounters
Thoughts dwell on the staged randomness of her attendance
Dark locks hanging loose
Skin, pale like alabaster
Eyes, haunting and sadly beautiful, admiring nothing but the cracked pavement below
While her grace carries her closer
The Cigarette…
Is the key to understanding and more importantly, interpreting things
While trying not to make eye contact with her
The watcher bides his time
Careful glances for split moments
Focusing while she’s distracted with her order
Excitement held in check by sheer willpower
As if trying to time a volcanic eruption
Or the moment a levee decides to break
And when the server returns everything changes and suddenly it begins
The beauty of color in a black and white world, if only in pieces
The first sighting
Appearing in her drink as it’s presented
Dark red wine in a shapely glass
Smiling lips of light rose
Emerge from the shadowy smoke of worn sepia
A grey butterfly suddenly awash with azure
Becoming colorized in her presence and then again to grey as it flits away
Silver reflection from her cigarette case
The watcher openly staring as the length of white is gently removed
And ignited in a burst of flaming butane
Keeping count of the passing seconds measuring
The long inhale of the first drag
Pleasure on her face
Her bosom rising as the moment grows near
Eyes closed in near perfection
As if she realizes what’s about to transpire
The Exhale…
Of steel grey and blue smoke
Emerging from her lips in a rounded cloud
While the second hands slow in an unsolicited solidarity
Time it seems is also immersed in the exhalation
Where a single cloud somehow gains purchase of the surrounding air
Coagulating and separating
Somehow aligning into more than just spiritual imagery
The watcher watching how effortlessly the threads present something to see
Mediterranean frescoes
Flowers of celeste, magenta, sandstone, and mustard
Dark vines of hunter and forest green snake up the pale limestone walls
Long-since abandoned color pallets on display as if somehow
The guiding hand of an ancient master
Is developing this presentation of possibilities
And yet everything in proximity remains nondescript and grey
Expect the artwork in her cloud of smoke
Which,
Has already started to fade away
Reverting back to the smoky components of its construction
Taking the color
Taking it away
The Moment….
Leaving the watcher with nothing more than a precious memory
With no expectations of a repeat performance
And no opportunity to capture the vision
Just a quiet reflective splinter of time
To savor and retain the colors
As if memories could serve as printed pictures
The watcher, with eyes closed, concentrates for a precious few seconds
The wrought iron chair no vacant
Wine glass non-existent
And everything once again a dull pallet of shades of grey
Offering a simple cue
To stand and walk away
Perhaps
An encore
On a different day
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Very interesting and different, this world of dark, light, grey and sepia. He seems to have once had color with his vision, for he has memories of colors when he closes his eyes. Makes me think of the old black and white TV and trying in my mind to put color to the screen images. Very expressive and well penned, Ralph. I enjoyed reading this poem. Great work.
Very well written Ralph, on an unusual subject that evokes many questions and thoughts as to how we all see things differently. Well done my friend.
Actually I was inspired by a drawing I encountered while searching for something else – it was very crude (on purpose) and had a silhouette of a woman with an exhaled cloud of smoke and somehow I saw a building in the smoke, which led me to start writing what turned into a lengthy poem. Instead of writing stanzas, I tried this approach.