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Art Class Impasse

When it comes to art, mine’s not exactly just abstractly. Quite matter of factly, it might catch some flak-ly.

Art Class Impasse
(Going – going – gone!)

Invited to pull up a seat,
A studio session to meet,
The truth I’ll confide:
I cringed and I sighed
And hastened to beat my retreat.

The teacher arranged a sweet vase
With flowers assembled in place.
My cohorts drew fine,
While I sipped the wine
And stared at my easel’s blank space.

My languid attempt drew a glare.
The master arose from his chair.
He paced and he huffed.
He stomped and he scuffed,
My still life drove him to despair.

I dabbled and dabbed with the paint.
(Remember, a Rembrandt I ain’t.)
The blooms impish seemed.
The vase unredeemed.
My canvas begged high-pitched complaint.

The merciful end came at last.
I glanced at my painting, aghast.
The colors betrayed
Unspoken tirade.
I had to get out of there fast!

To draw, paint, or sculpt is a gift.
The artistic muse left me stiffed.
Don’t mean to kvetch,
But attempting a sketch?
The mere thought can set me adrift.

Perhaps we may each have a flair,
With talent and passion to spare.
But I’ll be the one
Who’s coming undone,
With art to complete and compare.
c2017 by Linda Ann Nickerson

Bayfront Painting Class, 1945, vintage/public domain. (Thanks, Sepia Saturday.)

This poem was posted in response to these prompts:

ABC Wednesday: “G” words
One-Liner Wednesday: See subtitle (above).
Three-Word Wednesday: “high-pitched,” “impish,” and “languid”


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