Bob Ross

Following your voice like

I follow your strokes

Across this big blank canvas

I am so uncoordinated that

My hands make

Mountains where the sky was

Meant to be

My rivers tremble rather than

Flow, my trees all crooked

When they should stand tall:

I am no Bob Ross.

Try as I might, and I try like mad

I am no 80’s Afro-sporting

Nature Man

Speaking for mountains that

Sleep like humans and lie

Like Gods:

I am no Bob Ross.

I hoped to be a painter

A bold color-maker with bright lights

Shimmering from the beyond

Through my calcite canvas

Until they blast forth into the

Eyes of these beholders

And are dubbed beautiful

But alas:

I am no Bob Ross.

Perhaps I am a happy little tree

A woodchuck among the firs

A brilliant owl tucked in the shade

Or a shy doe just out of sight

But I know better.

And my brush knows better.

I am not the happy trees

Nor the animals that dwell there

I am not his friend

The Squirrel

Though I wish I could be,

No.

I am the paintbrush.

You know the one;

I am the paintbrush he slaps

Against the palette,

A fish against the rocks

In the river of life

The lamb slammed

Against stones for our

Blood sacrifice

I am the paintbrush that collects

The Master’s colors

No choice in the matter

Just picking up what the world

Has to offer and giving it back

In a better way

A more beautiful shape

A happier tree

A brighter sky.

But I am not the painter.

I am just the brush that was

Filled with Titanium White

Hints of Cadmium Yellow

Still tinting the surface

Of my canvas that stretches

Round the world and back again,

Van Dyke Brown strands falling

From the top of my hill into

Hidden caverns and bright

Prussian Blue skies that never

End and hardly blink, no:

I am no Bob Ross.

I am his sorry paintbrush,

Its bristles packed with color

Smearing Sap Green into

Make-believe crevices in the

Hopes that somehow

The world will be brighter,

More lush, more vibrant

More anything but loud.

I am no Bob Ross.

But I want to be like him

So badly that I keep practicing

On the broken canvas

Before me

Staring solemnly back

From the Midnight Black

Of eternity and whispering

You’ll never be him.

But I can be like him.

And I suppose that is

Good enough

For a busted, color-filled

Little paintbrush.