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Hall Of Blank Portraits 

To my father, 
I paint you as the sea, 
Ebbing and flowing 
In my memory.
Drifting in the doldrums 
Immortal and serene, 
Sleeping forever 
In blues and green,
I sit on the shore 
And dip my feet,
Fearing your portrait 
Will remain incomplete. 

To my mother, 
I sketch you in chalk,
Across a torn canvas 
Where my demons walk, 
Every brushstroke
Dusty and smudged, 
Devoid of the colours 
You have always begrudged,
I kneel in the nothingness 
Cold and dank, 
Praying your portrait 
Will always remain blank. 

To my wife 
I paint a pastiche, 
The detail and shading 
A masterpiece, 
Some of the hues
I will need to borrow 
From the darker years
And the times of sorrow, 
Today I blend them 
Into the colours of your face,
Tomorrow your portrait 
Will take pride of place.

To my son 
I create a collage, 
An abstract of shapes 
You can sabotage, 
Rearranging the pieces 
In the chaos of your mind, 
Forming some kind of sense 
From the images you find,
I watch you methodically 
Cut and paste, 
Your portrait will never 
Be worked on in haste.

To my daughter, 
I colour in pastel shades, 
Subtle white lace
And multicoloured brocades, 
Basking in the sunlight 
That lights up your face 
Where you'll always pretend 
You're in a better place, 
I stand on the edge,
Distant and alone, 
Your portrait is only one 
I will never own.

To my siblings, 
I draw you as trees, 
Rigid in stature, 
Defying the breeze, 
The roots are tangled 
In crumbling rock,
The branches separate 
Where they should interlock, 
I stand in the forest 
Alone and lost 
Selling your portraits
At little or no cost. 

To my friends, 
I etch you in gold
So the creases that define you 
Can never unfold, 
The plaque will be small
But the lines true, 
The faces I will polish 
Will be but a few,
I reflect in the image 
Blurred and a folly,
I will frame your portraits
With melancholy. 

To my lovers, 
I depict you weeping, 
Washed in watercolours 
Bleeding and seeping, 
And on your tears
I will always sip
As off the parchment 
You slowly drip,
I will mop your faces 
Until the paper is dry,
I will keep your portraits 
Until I die.

To my life
I charcoal in greys, 
Layer upon layer
For the rest of my days, 
Eventually the blackness 
Of sadness and rage 
Will become solid layers 
On a liquid page, 
I will live in my comfort zone 
In an empty hall
Hanging blank portraits
On a forgotten wall.
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