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The Painter

My father

By Barb DukemanPublished 3 years ago 1 min read
1

With bold, unwavering strokes

Of tinted shades, carefully mixed,

Covering top to bottom

A hobby, a profession, our father –

He painted our lives.

Old brushes, lovingly wrapped in paper

Each brush with a purpose

Fine, broad, stain, finishing

Each imprinting its own design

A swirl, a sparkle, a careful touch-up

Each marked with every color ever used –

He painted our lives.

He protected the ground

Our foundation, our past

Canvases wide, speckled with splashes of color,

Spread over valued items of daily life,

Keeping the workspace clean

Prepping saving valuable time –

He painted our lives.

The finished result: three rooms,

Two blue, one pink,

Beautiful, detailed, unique

Pleasant places, spectacular color

Inviting showrooms for the world

This he was most proud of –

He painted our lives.

sad poetry
1

About the Creator

Barb Dukeman

After 32 years of teaching high school English, I've started writing again and loving every minute of it. I enjoy bringing ideas to life and the concept of leaving behind a legacy.

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