Signature
Bruised with dirt,
The light-green
Goose-pimpled wall
Supports a lonely
Slanted oil painting,
Thick embossed
Gilt covered frame,
Quietly peeling.
Seascape of
Blue curling waves
Breaking,
White tipped.
Driftwood, spongy seaweed,
And broken shells
Scattered on the grainy shore.
A pair of seagulls,
Puffed up, crops bulging,
Perch contently
on a piece of crumbling wood,
Like an old married couple,
Watching the receding water—
They intrigue me,
And I almost overlook
The weather-beaten fisherman,
Naturally positioned,
On dark barnacled-rocks
In the bottom left corner.
Yet, he is the picture,
Poignantly depicted with subtle boldness
Of blending.
He stands, legs apart,
Stretched green-knitted sweater,
Oversized, hanging in points.
His brown trousers
Rolled up
Beyond the knees,
To a defined scar
On his sunburned leg.
Tattered sneakers,
Flopping soles laughing
At the constant splash of spray.
His profile,
Clearly defined,
As if I know him.
Protruding forehead,
Roman nose,
Square jaw
Clamped on black curled pipe.
In hypnotic fascination,
I feel myself being drawn in
As my fingertips trace
Raised oils,
Caress the dusty canvas
With a familiar fondness
I know, but can't explain.
A mysterious, yet tangible
Force transports me
The vortex pulls me in,
Until the pungent smell
Of his bait envelops me.
And I feel the taut tug of
Fishing line
On half-moon bending rod.
Hear the "tzee tzee"
Of the reel fighting the pull,
And experience the thrill of his catch.
A world-within-a-world,
Lost in the tunnel of its solitude
I become the picture.
Recognize its familiarity
As I see his signature,
Painted with precision,
In upward slant
Chocolate-brown
Brushed strokes.
Artist,
Simple fisherman,
Passed on,
Yet lives
In his canvass
Sealed with his
Signature.
Always my granddad.
