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His heart cries as he tries to paint his way home



He is frozen here, painting a chaos of color,

red burns into orange easing over strength

of his patron’s will, her polished pewter shoulders,

the reason he is alive, she hopes to inspire him.


He, a Jerusalem poet, is drowning in the help

of wealthy western sponsors, their passion fueled his flight,

how they came to love him cannot be remembered,

only that it was the white hot escape into this freedom.


They placed him in this unbroken country

of flash and liberty recklessly wasted in

this youngster of a nation. It breaks his heart again

as it forgets to remember the inhale of freedom.


He tries to seize their mettle, lays thick warrior red

over the canvas, but their generosity spreads as stain

in all directions, covering his endless journey

from his beloved city, his Jerusalem.


Maybe, maybe, when the paint is dry,

the aching will release him and his children,

will permit return to plant bare feet on the land

of their birth, his mother and lover, their Palestine.


Maybe finally, this palette of a new neon life,

gifted him in spite of his constant yearning to go home,

will offer passage home to the land of their blood,

but their hope pushes against forbidden return.

Sharon Lopez Mooney, His heart cries as he tries to paint his way home,

“Sybil Journal”, ed. DM Rice,

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