Hall of Blank Portraits

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.